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Poems of the Heart 



Rev. T. F. Hildreth, A. M., D. D. 



NORWALK. OHIO 

THE LANING COMPANY 
1903 



rxHF LIBRARY OF 
OONORESS, 

ore. :> n02 

CLASH CX ,yxo No. 
^ CDPY B. 






COPYRIGHT 

REV. T. F. HILDRETH, A. M., D. D. 

1903 



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SACRED TO THE 

MEMORY OF MY WIFE 




TO THE READER 



My reason for offering this volume of poems to the public 
is neither the love of gain, nor a desire for fame ; but the 
earnest thought that the hopes it may inspire, and the faith it 
may increase, will make it a benediction to those who love 
"The True, the Beautiful, and the Good." 

Many of these were written years ago when I was engaged 
in pastoral duties, and were suggested by various scenes and 
incidents which came under my observation and into my 
experiences. Some of them were suggested by a careful study 
of the problems of science, and the progress of scientific inves- 
tigations in the results of which I have ever felt a profound 
interest. Others of them originated in a careful observation 
and an adoring love of Nature, which has ever been to me a 
gospel of beauty, and a source of spiritual exaltation. Many 
of them express the most sacred relations and experiences of 
life, and have been evolved from the lights and shades, the 
smiles and tears that fall upon the path and make up the 
history of our years. 

May the spirit in which my poems have been written be 
reproduced in all who may read them. 

The Author. 



INDEX. 



PAGE 

Alone with God 24 

Autumn Tints 33 

A Sabbath Evening Reverie 42 

A Woman's Hate 69 

A Living Soul 96 

At My Brother's Grave 99 

A Living Presence 134 

Benediction 176 

Crucified Innocence 107 

Christmas Greetings 172 

Conscience 164 

Does Death End All ? 60 

Death's Harvest 83 

Evolution 159 

El-Capitan 52 

Earth's New Day 112 

Ego Sum 125 

From Death to Life 44 

Good Bye All 91 

Heart Whispers 56 

Home Land of the Spirit 86 

His Name Shall be Called Wonderful 143 

Hope 19 

He Toucheth the Hills and They Smoke 80 



viii INDEX. 



Invocation 1 

In the Shadows 36 

In the Beginning 92 

In Potter's Field 98 

I Am the Life 136 

If I but Whisper Her Name 175 

If We but Knew 163 

L/Overs to the Last 5 

Life' s October J 7 

Love's Offering 37 

Life's Highlands 67 

Lengthening Shadows 84 

Love's Tears 87 

Light and Shade 110 

Midnight W^hispers 13 

Memory's vStorehouse 28 

Moonlight in Yosemite 30 

Morning on the Sierras 34 

My Dear Old Clock 38 

My Seventy-Fifth Birthday 85 

Met in the Windowless Chamber 131 

Mystic Borderland 138 

My Backwoods Home 152 

My Backwoods School 156 

Nature's Orchestra 16 

Nature's Gospel 41 

Niagara 58 

Not Far Between 142 

Only Tenting 76 

Our Dead President 82 

Our Dead Heroes 100 

O Death! 113 

Our Golden W^edding 154 



INDEX. ix 

PAGE 

On the Birthday of a Friend 155 

Our Little Mary 168 

Power to Become 128 

Rest, Brother 106 

Something Touched My Soul 9 

Sabbath in Heaven 22 

Spring on the Farm 26 

Sunshine 45 

Silent Forces 50 

Silence 55 

Sunbeams 141 

Spirit Tendrils 173 

Spring is Coming 170 

Some One is Calling 57 

The Poet's Realm 2 

TheSculptor 6 

The Picture on the Wall 8 

The Withered Leaf 14 

The Death Land 18 

The Life Land 20 

The Lost Mate , 23 

This Heart of Mine 27 

Things not Seen 29 

The Dew- Kissed Rose 39 

The Other Man with the Hoe 40 

The Low Green Tent 43 

The Draped Door 46 

The Silent City 49 

Twilight 63^ 

The Graveyard by the Bay 6^ 

The Morning Prayer 68 

The Dear Old Flag 74 

The Lost Navy 77 



X INDEX. 

PAGE 

The Changeless Forever 81 

The Old Man's Dream 88 

The Everlasting Now 94 

The Midnight Burial 97 

The Twilight Bell 104 

The Parted Ways 105 

Take Him Down from the Cross Ill 

Then and Now 114 

The Uncaused Cause 124 

The First Robin 126 

The Old and the New Century 129 

Thanksgiving 132 

The First Geranium Bud 139 

The Old Family Cupboard 174 

The Thought World 146 

The Risen Christ 147 

The Dying Year 151 

The Song of the Lark 158 

The Old South Woods 160 

Thrashing with a Flail 166 

The Ides of Spring 169 

Voices from the Flowers 35 

When the Spirit Steals Away 73 

Whispered Greetings 127 

When the Sun Goes Down 140 

Yosemite's Lone Grave 150 



Iiivociitioii. 



Great Spirit over all 

Breathe Thou on me — 
Thou Radiance divine 

Cause me to see. 

O Voice that speaks to me 
Cause me to hear — 

May every whispered word 
Fall on my ear. 

O Thou who art The Way 
Guide Thou my feet — 

In purity and love 

Make me complete. 

O Thou who art The Truth 
Be Thou my guide — 

In all the ways I choose 
Walk by my side. 

O Thou who art The Ufe 
lyive Thou in me — 

That I in all my ways 
May honor Thee. 

(1) 



2 — 



The Poet's Realm. 



He stands upon the mystic shore that bounds 

The Now, and mutely gazes on the 

Limitless Beyond. Its vastness awes his 

Soul; for well the Poet knows that he who seeks 

To reign in these grand realms must needs be born 

Of Royal blood, and bear upon his heart 

The stamp of greatness. 

The empires of the 
Past, that lie beyond the dim outline of 
All historic scenes, are made as real 
By the poet's skill, as are the great events 
Recorded in the Book of Ages. 

From 
That eventful time, when, after darkness long 
Had brooded o'er the earth, its morning dawned, 
To this auspicious age in which the looms 
Of Reason in their ceaseless toil weave in 
The web of thought its golden threads of light — 
In this vast realm the poet's pen has won 
Unending fame. 

Inspired by love of right, 
His power for good is more than battle ax 
Or sword ; for he who wins his laurels on 
This field of strife, deserves a victor's crown 
Much more than he whose laurels drip with blood. 
He throws his search-light on the sepulcher 
Of Kings whose thrones long since have crumbled 
Into dust; and from the wrappings of the 
Grave he brings to life the honored dead whose 
Prowess ruled the world. 

No flaming sword hangs 
O'er the gates where trees of knowledge grow, and 



Yield their luscious fruit; and no avenging 

Angel drives him from their sheltering shade: 

Science, with sandaled feet, and searching eye, 

Has quarried in the rocks where buried forms 

Long since extinct, have been entombed for ages. 

Embalmed by Nature's secret art; but 

By the poet's magic pen these dead of 

Long ago are wakened into life, and 

Sea and land and sky, are vital with their 

Presence. 

Nor is this all: The Now, that like a 
Changing shore line marks the ages gone from 
Ages yet to come — with all its wealth and 
Woe — its wrongs and noble deeds — the Now that 
Rises like an island in the sea — then 
Sinks to never rise again — o'er this vast 
Realm forever changing in its view, the 
Poet roams like one inspired. 

Above 
The mists that hang upon the noiseless tide 
Of death that flows unchecked along life's 
Outer shore on which there ever waits a 
Weary host, the poet sees a painless. 
Tearless, deathless world, on which the light of 
Endless life forever rests; and where the 
Soul unhalted by the weight of years, will 
Rise to heights of truth which lie concealed 
Beyond his earthly vision. He sees the 
Awful depths where shipwrecked spirits. 
Amidst the gloom of blighted hopes and ghosts 
Of wasted years, in sullen silence wait — 
Sometimes with wail of woe, without one ray 
Of light to penetrate the fathomless 
Abyss. Of this dark realm, in fadeless black, 



Dante and Milton wrote, till fancy sees 

The lurid glow of quenchless fires, and hears 

The echo of a ceaseless wail. 

The pen 
Of Homer built for Greece a monument 
More grand than granite piles, and Virgil gave 
To Rome a fame that shines undimmed by years. 

When freedom crossed the seas, and planted 
On New England's rocky shore her flag; here 
'Neath Columbia's sunny skies a new and 
Grander realm, stretched out before the poet's 
Eye, and from his fruitful pen broke forth a 
Nation's natal songs. 

When Treason lifted up 
Its bloody hands against the Nation's life, 
And freemen paled with fear; with pens that 
Flashed like burnished blades, our patriotic 
Bards inspired the hearts of the heroic men 
Who, for their country's honor, fought and fell. 

The poet sees the coming of a day, 

When swords unused will rust within their sheaths, 

And hostile armies never more will drench 

The earth with blood. 

When that auspicious time 
Has come — when Right is more than Might — when love 
Of Truth is more than love of Power, and greed 
Of wealth — a greater, and a grander realm, 
Will then unfold before the Poet's Vision. 



-5 — 



Lovers to the Last. 



The old man sat by the coffin, alone; 

Keeping vigil beside his dead wife. 
But his thoughts wandered back to the far away past, 

When in love, they began their long life. 

He saw the tide of the years gliding by, 
And the changes that came as it passed; 

But the love did not change with the years as they came, 
" We were lovers," he sobbed, " to the last." 

He stroked her white hair, while on her cold face 

His tear drops were falling so fast. 
And he kissed her mute lips, while in whispers he said: 

" We were lovers, indeed, to the last." 

The heart that once loves, will love evermore. 
Nor the years, nor yet death's chilling blast, 

Can dim nor conceal the pure love of the heart — 
Having loved, it will love to the last. 



--6 



The Sculptor. 



He stood before the marble block, and gazed 
As one entranced upon its rough, 
Unpolished sides, as if he saw concealed 
Within its very heart, in clear outline, 
A form of matchless beauty. 

No word fell 
From his lips ; but in his eye there was a 
Clear, strange light, as if some new-born thought had 
Thrilled his soul. 

The artist saw imprisoned 
Beauty in that snow-white block, and fancied, 
With her shackled hands she beckoned him to 
Break her prison door, and set her free. Her 
Mute appeal fell ou the sculptor's heart like 
Pleading sorrow from the depths of grief, and 
From that hour one great, grand thought possessed him ; 
And in that thought there was contained a 
New Creation. 

But Art is born of worship ; 
And first he sought the Holy Place where 
Genius has her shrine, and offered as his 
Sacrifice a life of patient toil. 

The 
Artist waited till he heard " a still, small voice," 
Then seized his chisel with a purpose born 
Of faith, and care and toil became to him 
Like daily prayer and praise. 

As surely 
As the looms of life weave atoms into 
Perfect shape, — as grace and beauty 
In the plans of God may be evolved from 
Waste and death, — so too, the arti.st saw his 



/ — 



Grand ideal, by his daily toil, emerging 
From that shapeless block. 

Sometimes the thought of 
Failure threw a gloom upon his heart, as clouds 
Throw down their shadows on the buds and opening 
Flowers, but have no power to stay the 
Noiseless tides of life ; so fear stayed not his hand, 
Nor chilled the tides of hope that daily had 
Inspired him. 

Success at last in triumph 
Placed her crown upon his brow. The mystic 
Form he first descried deep buried in the 
Marble block, now stood before him like a 
Thing of life. 

He laid his hand upon 
Its cold, white brow ; he touched its cheek as 
Gently as a mother prints a kiss upon 
Her sleeping baby's lips, — then smiled as if 
He heard a whispered word of love. 

Long time 
The sculptor stood and gazed upon the 
Faultless form created by his skill. But 
While in grace he saw it was complete, he 
Knew it was as lifeless as the quarried 
Block from which his hands had shaped it. 

No blush 
Of life was glowing on its cheek ; no light 
Of genius kindled in its eyes ; no breath 
Escaped its parted lips ; but, pulseless. 
Sightless, breathless, mindless, there it stood 
(In beauty unsurpassed as tested by the 
Critic's eye), a silent witness to the 
Truth, that none but He, who from the dust at 
First created man, can by his skill, or 
Word of power, create a Living Soul. 



The Picture on the Wall. 



There's a picture on the wall, 
To me, more beautiful than all 
The artist's sunset views — 
All his hills and rocks and trees — 
More than all his mountain scenes- 
More than all his boundless plains- 
Brighter than the morning light 
That succeeds the glow of night- — 
Serene and quiet as the glow 
When the evening sun hangs low : 
A picture dear to me as life — 
The picture of my sainted wife — 

I speak her name ; then bend my ear 
As if from her mute lips to hear 
A loving answer to my call ; 
But as I wait my warm tears fall. 
For well I know — and oh, the pain 1 
She'll never answer me again. 

I look into her loving eyes 

As mild and clear as summer skies ; 

Rut though with love's light once they shone 

Their love light is forever gone. 

And yet to me they're all aglow, 

For from them yet there seems to flow 

The same pure love whose sacred power 

I've felt in trouble's darkest hour; 

For when the world's cold eye would chill 

And wound my heart, she loved me still. 

Dear picture hanging on the wall, 

Though beautiful, you are not all 

That's left of a devoted wife ; 

For still I have her noble life, 

Her simple faith, her love of prayer — 

A living presence everywhere. 



Something Touched My Soul. 



Out in the mists in search for Truth, I felt 

A something touch my soul — as when a hand 

Is gently laid upon the cheek to wake 

You from a dream. It thrilled along the 

Nerves of thought, and wakened most intense desire 

That stirred to its profoundest depths my 

Very being. 

Soul life is more than just 
To live — more than a throbbing of the 
Pulse, a beating of the heart : It is that 
Conscious inner life that feeds on truth, and 
In its search unfolds its greatest power. 
And finds its chief delight. 

A tiny seed 
When touched by nature's warming breath, will 
Soon unwrap its winding sheet, and beauty's 
Blush will tint the new born flower, while 
Fragrance sweet as breath of paradise, will 
Steal from out its parted lips, and fruit as 
lyUscious as the grapes of Eschol vines 
Reveals the secret of its hidden life. 

The touch of truth upon a soul is like a 
Sunbeam on the diamond's face ; it flashes 
Not alone upon its polished cheek, but 
Penetrates its heart from which there seems to 
Leap electric sparks — like gleams from an 
Imprisoned light. We grope in tangled webs 
Of thought amidst the mingled lights and shades 
Of theories and facts, till on the soul 
There comes a flash from some secreted truth 
As sunshine sometimes bursts through rifted clouds. 
Far out upon the frontier lines of thought, 



10 



With eager eye upturned, as one who in 

The night waits for the break of day — so stand 

Expectant souls amidst the gloom of 

Superstition's starless sky to catch the 

Dawning of a day in which the clouds of 

Error cherished long, shall flee away, 

And truth's clear light shall flood the world 

Of thought as noonday floods the hills and vale«. 

Truth's holy light means freedom to the souls 

Of men ; nor church, nor priest, nor state may forge 

And rivet chains with which to bind the 

Spirit in its searching after God. 

When 
Moral darkness, like a pall, hung o'er the world 
And men in outward form and lifeless creeds 
Were seeking rest, the light of truth flashed in 
A cloister where an eager soul was groping 
In the gloom of night, and stamped in livid 
Words upon his heart : " The just shall live by 
Faith," and from that hour the morning of 
A brighter day broke on the world. 

One touch 
Of truth, may in a moment, rouse the 
Spirit from repose, and stir its nether 
Depths as tempests stir the caverns of the 
Sea ; or just one look of love's .soft eye can 
I^ull it to repose as calm as twilight's 
Holy hour. 

The soul's thought depths have never 
Yet been reached by plummet line ; and Reason 
In its patient toil deep down in mines of 



— 11 



Truth has never found the limit of its 
Power ; nor has it yet ascended to 
Its highest summit. 

As silent as the 
Power that holds the needle to the pole — 
More fleet than is Aurora as she mounts 
The night sky with her steeds of light — more 
Subtile than the force secreted in 
Magnetic steel, is that strange power of 
Soul, which by expansion, moves the world. 

Before the artist can discern the secret 
Forms of beauty hidden in the block, or 
Can on canvas sketch the tints that charm 
The eye " in Nature's varied forms," he needs 
Must feel upon his soul Thought's magic touch 
To waken unto life his latent powers. 

The world's great dynamo is Thought : that 

Mystic something which contains the secret 

Power from which the revolutions that 

Have swept the fields of earth have been evolved ; 

And sets in motion all the engines in 

The workshops of the world, and grooves the 

Channels, where in ceaseless ebb and flow the 

Tides of commerce run. 

Touched by a new, strange 
Thought, a watcher turns his eyes up where the 
Lightnings flash, and from that hour the subtle 
Spirit of the clouds inspire our steeds of 
Steel, and fleeter than the sunbeams fly are 
Sent to do the errands of the world. We 
Stand with bated breath, and bare our heads in 
Awe when gazing on the masterworks of 



12 — 



Art ; the wonders genius has performed ; but 
Eye has never seen, nor ear has ever 
Heard the muffled touch of thought upon a 
Human soul. 

It was the all-inspiring 
Thought that men, by right of birth are free, that 
Shook the Old World's thrones (as sometimes 
Earthquakes shake the hills) and by it crowns and 
Scepters fell from tyrants' hearts and despots' 
Hands, while o'er their ruins now the flag of 
Freedom waves in triumph. 

From out the world's 
Long night the morning of a New Day dawns ; 
For Truth, with lighted torch amidst conflicting 
And diverging creeds, is opening up 
Highways of thought, where side by side, and hand 
In hand she leads the brave and true to grander 
Heights and richer fields than ever yet have 
Been explored. The fires upon her altars 
Never die — though sometimes dimmed by myths 
Of men, who in her name assume the 
Holy office of High Priest, and set up gods 
Whose creeds and worship she abhors. 

Truth's touch 
Upon the soul is like the still, small voice 
Of God, which, though no other ear may catch, 
To him who hears, is like a Living Presence. 



— 18 — 



Midnight Whispers. 



I thought that I heard in a whisper — 
A whisper that love only hears — 

M)' name, from one bending above me, 
And dropping love words in my ears. 

I looked, but could see no form bending 
O'er the pillow on which I had slept; 

Though I felt there was one close beside me. 
That in silence, love's vigils had kept — 

Had watched while alone I was sleeping 

And knew not that she guarded my bed — 

That she heard the good night that I whispered, 
And saw the lone tears that I shed. 

The name that I called her in girlhood — 

The name that the heart holds so dear — 

I softly pronounced, and then listened 
Her answering whisper to hear. 

Not by voice nor by word did she answer, 
Nor with sound from beneath or above; 

But sweeter and clearer she answered — 
She answered my heart, by her love. 

How sacred these whispers at midnight — 
How blest are these vigils of love ; 

For they turn the sad heart from its darkness 
To the dawn of love's mornino; above. 



14 — 



The Withered Leaf. 



I sat alone beneath the maple boughs 

And listened to the gentle winds which breathed 

So soft and low, like sound of voices far 

Away, both sweet and sad, which sometimes float 

On evening air when night begins to spread 

Its curtains o'er the sky and drapes with sombre 

Hues the hills and vales. I heard them whisper 

Fainter and fainter still till leaf and bough were 

Motionless, and silence reigned supreme. 

A hush fell on my soul, as when good b)^e 

Is said to one we dearly love, and with 

Abated breath and moistened eyes we 

Watch the fading form of friends till distance 

Hides them from our eager gaze, and we are 

All alone. 

A moment more, and then there 
Came a murmur like the sound of wavelets 
Playing on the pebbles of a beach when 
Night has draped the waters for repose. 
And twilight's sacred hour has turned the 
Thoughts to God. Each quivering leaf and swaying 
Bough seemed like a thing of life just waking 
From a dream when touched by love's soft hand 
Which gently sings some plaintive strain that floats 
Out on the air like music of a far 
Off lute — so softly came this summer breath. 
I scanned the leafy bower to see 
If spirit forms were not concealed within 
The deep, cool shade above, as choirs are 
Sometimes hid when down from organ loft -there 
Float the soft clear notes of song. 



— 15 



No angel 
Forms iu spotless robes arrayed, with golden 
Harps attuned to song could I descry ; and 
Yet the music of the winds so charmed 
My ear and thrilled my soul, that earth and 
Heaven seemed blended into one. But as 
I thought and watched and dreamed, a faded 
Leaf came gently circling down, and fell in 
Silence by my side — as if its mission 
Then were done, and rest had come. 

I looked 
Upon its shriveled face as if it were 
The corpse of a familiar friend by who.se 
Cold form I sat in silence all alone 

It was but a leaf, I knew ; a tiny leaf, but 

Still it wore the look of death — as when the 

Blush of beauty fades from childhood's dimpled 

Cheek. Dead! Yes 'twas dead! Its mission had been 

Filled; it helped to beautify the bough from 

Which it fell, and added to the grateful 

Shade where I had sought repose. A whi.sper 

vSeemed to come from out its sapless veins 

As soft as childhood's breath when sleeping on 

Its mother's breast: 

' ' We all fade as a leaf. ' ' 

And so I thought all life begins and ends: 

The birds of spring throw off their winter wraps, 

And suns and dews will waken into life 

A thousand forms whose beauty charm the soul; 

But soon time's withering touch will fade the tints 

From beauty's cheek, and drooping flowers and 

Falling leaves will lie on velvet lawns like 

Corpses on the battle field of human life. 



16 



Nature's Orchestra. 



Behind the mystic curtain that divides 
The unseen from the seen— that shore line where 
Imagination can transform the soul — 
Dreams into real things; and change the real 
Into spirit forms — are Nature's tireless 
Harpsters. Unceasing music floats from keys 
And chords no human eye has ever seen; nor 
Skillful fingers ever touched. But night and 
Day their melody floats out on ever)^ 
Breeze, and echoes over mountain, hill, and 
Vale, till earth and sky are vocal with the 
Matchless music of Nature's matchless choir. 

It is no surpliced choir decked out in 
Tinselled vestments to allure and charm the 
Eye, whose formal songs and studied chants are 
But the echoes of a soulless worship; 
For every note that falls upon the ear 
From this cathedral loft, from faintest souud 
Of night wind's muffled sigh, to ocean's deep 
Toned bass — all leave a hush upon the soul 
And elevate the thoughts and faith to God. 

The murmur of the rill that laughingly 
Glides on through tangled copse, and softly hums 
Its liquid song — the sound of insect wings 
That floats like far off music on the air — 
The birds that sing their matin and their 
Vesper songs in bush and bower; though 
Never in discordant notes — the voices 
Of the sea, whose wavelets play upon the 
Beach, soft as lullabys with which a 
Mother rocks her babe to sleep — the roar of 
Waterfall and cataract to which the 



— 17 



Thunder-drum of heaven responds as 
Cannon answers cannon in the awful 
Fray where armies meet in deadly strife — all 
These are but the changing chords of Nature's 
Ceaseless hymns. 

The morning stars joined in earth's 
Natal song, and through the aisles of time the 
Music of the spheres still rolls : Nor will the 
Echo ever die away while from the 
Organ lofts of stars and suns shall burst in 
Ceaseless diapasons: " The heavens and 
All that in them is, declare the glory 
Of th^ir lyord;" and earth with her ten thousand 
Tongues repeat, " The hand that formed us is Divine.' 



Life's October. 



Dimly falls the golden sunbeams 
From October's murkj- sky; 

And around us, thick as snow flakes, 
Faded leaves of Autumn lie. 

From the leafless boughs of woodland, 
Songs and songsters too, have fled ; 

And the flowers that bloomed in beauty, 
Lie along our pathway dead. 

Sometimes, too, life's skies are murky 
With the thickening mists of care; 

Blighted hopes and blasted prospects. 
Lie about us everywhere. 

Human life has its October, 

And its paling sunshine, too ; 

But beyond the mists that shroud it. 
The Immortal Life shines through. 



— 18 — 



The Death Land. 



The bell is tolling for an ended life, and 

From its brazen mouth, and iron tongue there 

Floats upon the air a wail of woe, as 

If a voice from out the grave were hailing 

Every passer-by. We're in the Death Land 

Now, and all about us lie the faded 

Flowers, and withered leaves of the departing year. 

All nature speaks in whispers here as 
When the dew of death falls on the brow of 
Those we love, and slow and sluggish pulses 
Tell that death is near. We know full well 
The meaning of it all, for as the shades of the 
Receding year grow long we see the night 
Of Death is stealing on the world. 

We press 
Our list'ning ear close down to earth, and in 
Its feeble pulse we hear the muffled step 
Of death, and catch the last, faint whisper of 
The dying months. The tides of life that 
Coursed through nature's veins and throbbed' in 
Every swelling bud when Spring threw ofiF its 
Winter wraps are slow with age, and hazy 
Skies are like the dimming eyes of 
Manhood's closing year. Around us lie 
The faded leaves like corpses on the 
Field where shot and shell have strewed 
The earth with dead. 

The corn shocks stand 
I^ike tombstones on the very spot that gave 
Them life, and earth's green carpet spread on 
Hill and vale, far as the eye can reach, is 



19 



"Worn and faded by the summer sun. and 
Droughts and frosts have left a blight where 
But an hour ago beauty reigned supreme. 
Around, above, beneath, far as the eye 
Can reach, the twilight thickens into night, 
And signs of dying rest on all we see. 

We hear 
The night winds sigh amidst the leafless boughs 
Ivike mourners at the grave of buried love. 
Nor is this all ; for all about us doors 
Are draped with signs of woe, and many 
Eyes are dim with tears. We're in the Death Land 
Now, but 'midst the gloaming Faith describes a 
Land of Life beyond the thick' ning mists 
Whose hill tops are aglow with endless day. 



Hope. 



Thou all inspiring spirit 

Unseen by human eye — 

Unseen, but ever nigh — 

In darkest hours we see thy light. 

We hear thy voice in sorrow's hour, 

We feel thy all sustaining power 

Which bids us not to fear. 



— 20- 
The Life Laud. 



"For Death shall be no more ! " So says the Book 
Of God; and on that word Faith plants its 
Feet, and through the mists that hang upon the 
Death Land's shores it sees a Laud of Life on 
Which the blight of death shall never fall. Its 
Hill-tops glow with light, as when the morning 
Sun rolls back the clouds that drape the earth, and 
Floods the valleys with the golden light of 
Day. " The former things are passed away " 
And Death's long reign has ceased forevermore. 

On Life's celestial hills no grave shall e'er 

Be dug, and tears shall never dim the eyes 

That glow with love's soft light and sweep the fields. 

That bloom with fadeless flowers beneath the 

Life Land's skies. 

The Death Land lies between the 
Now and then, and graves ob.struct our weary 
Feet, and line the path that leads us to these 
Verdant shores; but forms of love that braved 
Death's chilling tide now beckon us away. 
And Faith and Hope dispel the fear that haunts 
The soul when Death's dark shadows fall upon 
The heart, and change earth's groans to songs of praise. 

But more than this: for Spirit life, that life 
That hides and yet contains the real life ; 
Whose highest joy is Truth ; whose greatest power 
Is love ; unchained by clogs of earth, and freed 
Henceforth from care and pain, shall roam the fields 
Of thought and find its chief delight as it 
Explores the hidden things of God. 

No bliss 
So great as that which thrills the spirit when 
In search of Truth. And though we know in 



-21 — 



Part, and evermore shall be but learners, 
With the vast unknown before the Soul to 
Lure it out to greater depths, and beckon 
It to grander heights; yet each new ra)- 
Of light that flashes on the Soul, and each new 
Truth disclosed, will learn us more of God. 
Upon the L,ife Land's sunny hills we soon 
Shall join our loved and gone, and in the 
Home not made with hands shall kindred spirits 
Dwell securely evermore. 

The graves in 
Which we laid their fragile forms when beauty's 
Blush had faded from the cheek, and Death had 
Sealed the lips of love, do not contain 
The real life we held so dear. We bring 
Fresh flowers, and lay them on their pulseless 
Breasts, but love's soft voice that seems to answer 
To our falling tears comes not from out 
The new-made grave, but from the Life Land's shores. 
To tell us that our dead still live. 

Henceforth 
We look at things not seen ; for all about 
Us lie the blighted hopes and withered joys 
Of Earth, and spirit voices from the land 
Of Life are calling us away. 

Faith lifts 
Its tearful eyes, and through the thick' ning night 
Of gloom it sees the search lights on the 
Hill tops of the Spirit Land. The conquering 
Christ invaded Death's dark realm and broke the 
Seal of every tomb of earth. The Life Land shores 
Will burst upon our vision soon, and songs 
Of joy will greet us as we reach our Home. 



22 



Sabbath in Heaven. 



Is it Sabbath to-day in heaven, wife ? 

Will you worship with loved ones long gone 
And join in the songs that they sing, wife, 

As I sit by your grave, all alone ? 

Do you know I am lonely today, wife — 
That I long to be with you there ? 

For no one kneels with me at home, wife, 
At the hour of our morning prayer. 

Do you see me beside "the green tent," wife. 
On which I have placed some fresh flowers 

You planted, and learned me to love, wife. 
In the home that we fondly called ours ? 

Do you come to my pillow at night, wife, 
And whisper your love in m^^ ear ? 

Do you print a soft kiss on my lips, wife, 
As you did in the days you were here ? 

When you entered the home-land above, wife, 
Did those that you loved long ago. 

Receive you with greetings of joy, wife. 

As they used to in earth-homes, below ? 

As you roam midst new scenes of delight, wife, 
Do you wish I was there by your side. 

To share your new home and its raptures, wife, 
And evermore with you abide ? 

O, when the hour comes for my going, wife, 

If it be in the night or the day, 
I hope your freed spirit will come to me, wife, 

To guide me across the dark way. 



23 



The Lost Mate. 



As I sit all alone by the place where she rests, 
And recall the flown years of our love, 

There floats on the air from the boughs of a pine, 
The soft notes of a lone turtle dove. 

Are you sitting alone by the side of a nest 

From which your dear bird wife has flown ? 

And are your sad notes the low echoes of grief 
For the mate you loved, but is gone? 

Dear bird, do you know that my home, likeyournest. 

Is deserted and cheerless to-day ; 
That the notes that I sing are in undertone, too. 

Since the hour that my mate went away ? 

O turtle dove, had I your wings I would fly 
Away from these graves and these tears 

To the land where the homes are all sunny with love, 
And unchanged by the flight of the years. 



24 



Alone With God. 



[The incident described in this poem came under the observation 
of the writer as he was rambling- in one of our cemeteries. | 

The temple in whose courts she prayed was 
Not the work of human hands, for man has 
Never built a house in which to worship 
God of such transcendent beauty. 

Its dome — 
A soft October sky — threw down a mellow- 
Light upon her thin, pale face, that seemed as 
Calm as if no shade of grief had ever 
Fallen on her heart. 

She knelt upon the 
Withered grass, while all about her were the 
Faded autumn leaves — some sear and dead — and 
Some wdth crimson spots like hectic flushes 
On the cheek when death is near. 

Her altar 
Was a new-made grave on which were wilted 
Flowers ; for early frosts had paled their cheeks, 
And not a sign of life was left of all 
That hands of Love had planted. 

She held a 
Rosary and cross — the symbols of her 
Faith — which helped to fix her thoughts upon 
Her Risen Lord, whose strength she came to seek 
And in whose presence she believed her loved 
And lost had found repose. 

The autumn winds 
Sighed through the leafless boughs as soft and low 
As mothers sing when .sitting by their sleeping 
Babes, watching their quiet rest. 



25 



She breathed her 
Prayer in whispered words, for well she knew 
That He in whose dear name she asked would catch 
The faintest tones that break from Sorrow's lips. 
She bowed her head and kissed the cross ; then, with 
Uplifted eyes she pressed it to her heart 
As if its very touch would comfort her. 

She closed her talk with God and left the 
Sacred spot as quietly as one would leave 
The couch where sleeping love reposes ; and 
Turned away as if the light of some new 
Hope had fallen on her heart. 

Who can say 
That those with whom she used to worship in 
The house of God were not on steady 
Pinions poised above, and with love's magic 
Power inspiring her with new-born courage? 

To those who seek, faith has electric lines 
By which the wounded heart can send 
Dispatches up to Him who notes the sparrow's 
Fall, and quicker than the lightning's flash there 
Comes the rest of peace to those who mourn. 



26 



Spring on the Farm. 



When warming suns melt off the snow, 
And warm south winds begin to blow — 
When on the meadows, here and there 
Are patches that look dry and bare; 
And when the creeks begin to rise 
By melting snows and thawing ice — 
It 'minds me of my backwoods home — 
Of springtime on the dear old farm. 

These seem like Nature's first pulse beats- 
A life throb 'neath her winding sheet 
Where she has laid in sweet repose 
Beneath the wrappings of the snows. 
The sunshine with its magic power 
Is waking every bud and flower; 
And soon the silent woods will ring 
With songs from wild birds of the spring. 

Springtime upon the farm brings toil: 
It means to dig, and stir the soil — 
To fence and drain, and plant and prune; 
But harvest time will answer soon; 
For noiselessly as steps of stealth 
The fields will bring the toiler wealth, 
And on his pathway, all the while 
Hope throws the sunlight of her smile. 

My thoughts and heart in fondness cling 

To childhood on the farm in spring ; 

And often in my dreams again 

I wander in the fields and lane: 

I sit beneath the orchard boughs — 

At twilight homeward drive the cows, 

And in my merry childhood hours 

Stroll in the wild woods gathering flowers. 



27 — 



Life's spring is changed to autumn, now ; 
Its morning sun to evening glow. 
But though I see 'tis sinking down — 
The twilight is as bright as noon. 
The days ot toil are almost past, 
And resting time is here at last. 
Far off, I see life's springtides roll — 
Near by, The Morning of the Soul. 



This Heart of Mine. 



O this heart of mine ! 
As I listen to its beating 
Every pulse seems an entreating 

(Like a softly whispered prayer 

Which none but he who prays can hear) 
For one gift all else above — 
The gift of one true heart of love: 

So prays this heart of mine. 

O this heart of mine! 
Throbbing when there's none to hear it — 
Throbbing when there's no one near it 

For love's smile to light the way — 

For love's voice to cheer each day; 
Throbbing oft with grief oppressed — 
Throbbing for the time of rest: 

So throbs this heart of mine. 



28 — 



Memory's Storehouse. 



Memory, thy garners are filled with the stores 

Thou hast gleaned from life's harvest through all the pasi. 

years. 
Thou hast hoarded up treasure of value untold, 
And pictures of beauty more precious than gold. 

Thou hast kept in life's book the events of each day, 

And serenely, in secret, hast stored them away, 

That when in our sadness we feel all alone. 

Thou mayest cheer us with pictures of years that are gone. 

1 knock at the door, and then patiently wait 
Thy coming to open the mystical gate ; 

Then softly thou presseth the key of past days, 
And visions of beauty flash out on my gaze. 

Not all that thou showeth inspires me with cheer : 
Some glow with the sunshine — some blotted with tears. 
In the Then, as the Now, there were dangers concealed, 
And darkness swept down on the heart that would yield. 

'Midst the pictures of beauty revealed by thy light 

Is the home in the backwoods, though humble, yet bright 

Because of the sunshine that love ever throws 

On the days of our gladness — on the night of our woes. 

On the canvas of years, on the full printed page, 
I can see that thy pictures are dimmed not by age ; 
For their lights and their tints are as perfect to-day 
As they were in the hour they were first stored away. 

I see once again gathered 'round the hearthstone 
The same group of loved ones — though some are now gone; 
But the years and the graves from my heart cannot hide 
The friends that then cheered me, and walked by my side. 



— 29 — 



In the autumn of life, as its winter comes on, 
When the leaves are all faded, and flowers all gone, 

memory, thy pictures of beauty can bring 

To the sunset of life all the brightness of spring. 

1 read in thy light of the soul's noble birth — 
Not a transient existence — not born of the earth — 
Though formed from the dust, yet mucli more than a clod- 
Created a man, in the image of God. 



Things Not Seen. 



Unseen things are all about us — 
Life forms floating overhead — 
In the dust on which we tread — 
In the dew drops they abide — 
On the winged winds they ride — 
Smile upon us in the flowers — 
Whisper to us in sad hours — 
Drop love words from unseen lips — 
Cheer our hearts with fondest hopes 
Of a changeless life beyond us, 
Where abide the friends who love us 

In the unseen world above us. 



— 30 



3Ioonlisrht in Yoseiiiite. 



' 'Soon as the evening shades prevail 
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale." 

Three thousand feet below the rock — rimmed brow 
O wild Yosemite ! 

Twilight thickens 
In the awful gorge while yet the sunbeams 
Play upon the snow-capped peaks that stand 
In silent grandeur as the night shades climb 
Their dizzy heights to drape them for repose. 

The roar of Vernal and Nevada Falls 

Floats on the evening air, and echoes o'er 

The hills like muffled thunder far away. 

Yosemite and Bridal Veil pour down 

The floods (fed by the melting .snows) which break 

Upon the craigs, and rise in sheets of mist 

That float like cloudlets through the v^alley. 

The beautiful merced in cadences 

As sweet as childhood's merry voice goes murmuring 

Through the vale like one who hums the strains of 

Some familiar hymn. South Dome throws down its 

Shadow on the placid face of Mirror Lake 

That nestles at its feet, which seems to 

Answer with a smile when morning breezes 

Fan its dimpled cheek. 

Amidst the thick' ning 
Gloom I lift my eyes, and through the shades that 
Fill the valley to its brim I see a 
Dim, pale blush is stealing on the darkness — 
As furnace fires will sometimes toss a glow 
Upon the brow of night. Beyond the far 
Off line where earth and sky seem blended in 
A shoreless sea of gloom a rim of light 



— 31 — 



Hangs out — as if it were the fragment of 

Some shattered globe afloat amidst the darkness. 

Another hour, and noiseless as the falling 
Dews the moon lights up her silver lamp and 
Mounts from cliflF to clifT, and leaps from peak to 
Peak; while darkness gathers up its skirts 
And steals away to gorges so profound that 
Neither ray of sun nor light of moon can 
Enter their sepulch'ral vaults. Her 
Transit from the moment of her dawn o'er 
The Sierra's fields of snow and ice-capped 
Peaks, is like the swing and roll of one grand 
Tidal wave, whose liquid light floods heights no 
Human foot has ever trod, and gilds the 
L,andscape with a glow no artist's skill has 
Ever reproduced. She turns her headlight 
On the domes and spires of the Cathedral 
Rocks which stand like sentinels, upon the 
Valley's brow; while cold El Capitan receives 
Her silvery smile without one answering 
Look of love. The coming of her midnight 
Train is traced by the receding shade 
Upon the granite wall that bounds the vale 
O'er which her flying steeds must leap or wreck 
Her gorgeous car upon the rocks below. 

But see! She lays her mystic track right for 
The gorge, and never heeds the doom 
Toward which she speeds without a sign of fear! 
Cathedral Rock, that rises like a temple 
Of the gods, stands on the very verge from 
Which the Night Queen is to leap, and for a 
Moment fear suggests that moon and mountain 
May collide. But long before the Red Man 
Found a trail amidst these craigs or climbed 
These dizzy heights — age after age, this same 
Old Moon has swung from rim to rim unchecked 






By fear and never harmed by accident, 
Nor wrecked by lack of skill. 

She seems to halt 
A moment on the valley's brow as if 
To note the scene below, or measure with 
Her eye the distance of the leap — then like 
A globe of light — without a guy to hold 
Her on her course — with every land line cut, rolls 
From the brink and hangs unstayed above the 
Yawning gulf beneath. 

A hush falls on the 
Soul and transport fills the heart, as standing 
' Neath her noiseless train the thought and faith turn 
To the Unseen Hand which shaped her perfect 
Form, and from the hour when she became the 
Mistress of the night has kept her in her 
Trackless way. Not for one moment does she 
Halt that he whose soul is filled with awe may 
Feast his eyes upon the matchless .scene that 
Nevermore may burst upon his vision. 
The fearful leap is made! 

The valley fills 
With shadows as the moon sweeps on her wny, 
And Night with muffled steps returns to drape 
The vale which for a little while was all 
Aglow with light. 

From mountain peaks, and 
Merced's rippling flow — from roar of distant 
Waterfalls that echo through the forest 
Aisles— from night winds murmuring soft and low 
From out the bowers of pine I seem to 
Hear an anthem of adoring love to 
Him whose hand stretched out the empty places 
Of the north, and filled the field of .space 
With suns and worlds whose song from age to age 
Has been: " The Power that formed us is Divine." 



33 — 



Autumn Tints. 



Autumn tints are hectic flushes 

On the paling leaves and flowers. 

Autumn winds are nature's dirges 

Floating through the leafless bowers. 

When the leaf -crowned boughs are faded, 
Pale and brown by summer heat ; 

Soon the winds sift down a carpet — 
Leaf-flecked carpet for our feet. 

Lying 'neath their winter wrappings, 
Now repose the faded flowers ; 

Which with love in spring we planted — 
Sometimes watered with love's tears. 

Noiselessly life's tides are halting. 
And the night of rest is near ; 

For the fading leaves of Autumn 
Mind us of the dying year. 

Nature's heart in sluggish pulses, 
Faint, and fainter, seems to beat ; 

And the fallen leaves, like corpses, 
Pale and dead, lie at our feet. 



— 34 — 



Morning on the Sierras. 



Wake, sleeper, wake ! The Morning comes- 

Morning, driving steeds of light. 

Chasing back the gloom of night. 

See how the shadows flee away 

Before the brightness of the day ! 

The night mists, like receding sails, 

Are seeking shelter in the vales. 

Look ! Mountain peaks in grandeur rise 

Like highways, leading to the skies. 

And Morning from her flambeau, throws 

A golden light on trackless snows ; 

While rock peaks stretching far away 

In sullen silence wait the day ; 

And mingling sounds from everywhere 

Float out upon the morning air 

Like muffled roll of Nature's drum. 

Wake, sleeper, wake ! Beauty has come — 

Beauty draped in robes of gold. 

And sunshine leaping from each fold ; 

While o'er the foothills and the plane 

In majesty she comes to reign : 

She sifts down brightness on the trees — 

Her whispers float on every breeze. 

She lights with smiles the woodland bower — 

She kisses every dew-washed flower. 

She dwells amidst the solitude 

Up 'midst the wondrous works of God — 

Up higher than the eagle's flight — 

Up on Sierras' dizzy height. 

Around whose brow by night and day, 

The lightnings flash, and thunders play ; 

And from whose cold and flinty brow 

Drip falling rains and melting snow. 



35 



There from her aery Beauty calls 
In voices from the waterfalls ; 
While verdant valleys far below 
Are radiant with her magic glow 
Caught from the distant mountain dome. 



Voices from the Flowers. 



There are voices that call from the flowers 
By loved forms that the eye cannot see, 

I catch their sweet songs from the bowers, 

Where they watch and are waiting for me. 

On the heart that is dreary and lone, 

There fall love rays that brighten its gloom ; 

And through the gray mists that shadow my path, 
Gleams the light of my heavenly home. 

I stand on the twilight-dimmed shore 

Calmly watching life's low setting sun, 

In the faith that the midnight of death 
Is the morning of life just begun. 

It is sweet, when the lone, smitten heart 
Is saddened and weighted with care, 

To think of the Home Land beyond. 

And the loved ones who wait for us there. 



-se- 



ll! the Shadows. 



As I sit amidst the shadows — 
Shadows of the dying year ; 

I catch voices in the stillness — 
Voices that I used to hear. 

From the far away come pictures 
lyighted by life's morning sun — 

Pictures sketched in fadeless colors 
On my heart as life began. 

Sitting in the year's last midnight, 
Memory takes me by the hand, 

Leading me with noiseless footsteps 
Back to childhood's fairyland. 

There she throws upon life's canvas 
All the fondly cherished names 

Of the loved ones ' round the hearthstone- 
All our sports and childish games. 

Eyes of love once more look on me — 
Words of love once more I hear ; 

And the merry laugh of childhood 
Floats upon the evening air. 

Then she softly sweeps life's love keys, 
And the home songs once so dear, 

lyike the notes of far off music 
Fall again upon my ear. 

In the backwoods home I linger. 
With its loved ones I rejoice ; 

Hear again my father's greeting. 
Hear my mother's tender voice. 



— 37 



One by one the group is broken ; 

Childhood ripens with the years ; 
And I watch the fading picture, 

Looking out through blinding tears. 

But I see a bow of brightness 

Spanning from the then till now, 

While the clouds that hang above me 
Are with morning light aglow. 

In the tower the clock is striking 

Midnight. Now the year is gone. 

I have wakened from my dreaming, 
But in waking am — alone. 



Love's Offering. 



Here, wife, are the flowers that all winter I've kept. 

And guarded with tenderest care. 
And your spirit, I fancy is watching them now 

As their fragrance floats out on the air. 

You remember — for spirits I'm sure don't forget — 

Our bright, golden wedding day, wife ; 
How your friends in their love, then gave you these flowers 

As the type of your beautiful life. 

The fragrance of love, wife, is sweeter than flowers. 

For its petals unceasingly bloom ; 
While its beauty shines out as life's day turns to night, 

And gilds with its brightness the tomb. 

The frosts may steal down on the flowers I have brought, 

And their beauty may pale and die out. 
But the heart, wife, that loved through all the long years 

With the frosts of old age, changes not. 



38 — 



My Dear Old Clock. 



Tick— tick— tick! 
I look upon your calm, cold face, 
Nor smile nor tear drop can I trace; 
And not a sign of age appears 
Upon your brow in all the years 
Though you have ticked by day and night — 
Ticked in the darkness — ticked in light. 
The years have come, but could not stay, 
For you have ticked them all away. 

Tick— tick— tick! 
I wake from sleep, and on my ear 
Your tick — tick — tick is all I hear; 
For all day long, and all night, too. 
No rest nor sleep e'er comes to you; 
And not one moment flies away — 
Not in the night hours nor the day, 
That can escape your watchful eye — 
Your tick — tick — tick, as it goes by. 

Tick— tick— tick! 
Your every tick tells of an hour 
When I will hear your tick no more. 
Your pulseless hands move slowly on, 
And yet how soon each hour is gone. 
Each tick, though fleeting as the breath 
Comes freighted both with life and death; 
But love's sweet voice, nor tone of fear 
Has ever fallen on your ear. 

Tick— tick— tick! 
How faithful, dear old clock, you've been 
Midst all the changes you have seen. 
You've ticked away when hearts were glad, 



— 39 — 



And ticked right on when they were sad. 
You've ticked amidst the smiles of home, 
And ticked, ticked, ticked when sorrow came. 
Good-bye, old clock! My sun goes down. 
But you will tick, tick, tick right on. 



The Dew-Kissed Rose. 



The following poem was suggested by the author finding a drop 
of dew in the center of one of his monthly roses. 



Beautiful, beautiful, flower ! 
I see that your lips are wet — 
For the moisture is on them yet — 
With the kiss of the dew. 

It noiselessly stole to your bower, 
Long after the sunset hour, 
And while you were wrapped in repose 
It whispered, " I'll kiss this rose." 

Beautiful, beautiful flower ! 
That gentle, sweet kiss of love 
Came on your soft cheek from above, 
To make it fresh and bright. 

So, oft from our gloomiest hours, 
Comes sweetness after the showers; 
And life, out of sorrow and woes, 
Is as pure as this dew-kissed rose. 



40 — 



The Other 3Ian with the Hoe. 



The man with the hoe is a free man; 

He owns both himself and his hoe; 
He chooses the fields in which to work, 

And the life path in which to go. 

To toil does not hinder his manhood; 

For work is prophetic of wealth. 
He earns by his hoe life's best treasure — 

The harvests of plenty and health. 

His sweat drops are not liquid curses 
To torture and add to his woe; 

They are dews coming down from heaven ; 
Or gems to encircle his brow. 

The man with the hoe is surrounded 
With all that enriches the soul ; 

There are sources of good all about him 
Just waiting to answer his call. 

At morning the song birds awake him, 

And sing him their sweet, matin lays; 

And with songs in his heart and courage. 
He goes forth to the work of the day. 

He plants, and the sunshine soon wakens 
The slumbering life of the seed. 

He sows, and the clouds sift down moisture, 
And plenty soon answers his needs. 

The man with the hoe is a student; 

He searches the deep thoughts of God. 
He sees there are lessons of wisdom 

In flower bud, and crystal and sod. 



— 41 — 



He looks out on his golden harvests — 

On his fields where his flocks come and go. 

He smiles as he looks on his cornfields — 
The reward of his plow and his hoe. 

In Autumn he gathers his fruitage; 

His garners with stores overflow. 
He has wealth, contentment and honor — 

And this is the man with the hoe. 



Nature's Gospel. 



The sunshine is kissing the flowers — 
Soft breezes are fanning my cheeks; 

And Beauty from each swelling bud 

To my heart in Love's undertone speaks. 

The tree tops are vocal with song, 

For the birds are repeating His praise 

By whose spirit, in notes full of joy, 

They warble in sweetness their lays. 

There is music that floats on the air — 

There is praise in the murmuring brook, 

Which sounds like a gospel of love 

From the pages of Nature's Great Book. 

When I search for this Fountain of Love, 

Search the earth and the sea and the sky; 
These all in full chorus unite : 

" Love's fountain is God," they reply. 



42 — 



A Sabbath Evening Reverie. 



Soft whispers float down from the evergreen boughs, 
'Neath whose shade I am sitting alone; 

And they fall on my ear like the voices of love ; 
Or as music in sweet undertone. 

A cloudlet hangs out in the dreamy, blue sky, 
With its skirts all aglow with the light ; 

While it lazily drifts on its lone, trackless way, 
But as noiseless as dews of the night. 

A turtle dove coos to its mate on her nest 

In the same plaintive tone as of yore; 
While pictures of child-life flash out on my soul 

Of the friends I shall see never more. 

I think of them sleeping in wakeless repose — 

Of their home in the land of the blest; 
And my heart thrills with joy as I think of the hour 

I shall greet them, and share in their rest. 

I hear the sweet tones of the vesper bells, now, 

Floating out on the soft, balmy air — 
But the hills and the vales, and the woods and the skies, 

Are God's temples, and altars of prayer. 

The landscapes of life are all vernal, and bright, 

For beauty resides everywhere; 
And if reason will search all the pathways of truth. 

It will find at the end, God is there. 



43 



The Low Green Tent. 



Upon her " low, green tent" 

I print a kiss of love, 
And seem to feel an answering kiss 

From spirit lips above. 

The faded autumn leaves 

Now drape her place of rest ; 

And withered flowers lie on the grass 
Above her pulseless breast. 

The winds in plaintive notes 

Sigh through the boughs o'erhead, 
And forest birds sing soft, and low 

A requiem for my dead. 

Sometimes in dreams I think 
She's in our home again ; 

But oh, the thrill of joy I feel 
Soon vanishes in pain. 

I softly call her name, 

And wait to hear her speak ; 
But only sighs, and mufiled sobs 

The awful silence break. 

As through my blinding tears 

I lift my eyes above, 
I seem to see her spirit form, 

And meet her smile of love. 

With ' ' good bye ' ' on my lips, 
I seek my saddened home, 

In which, I know in all the years. 
She nevermore will come. 

Not long have I to walk 

My dreary path alone ; 
For life's descending sun hangs low. 

And I shall soon be gone. 



44 — 



From Death to Life. 



Beneath our feet 
In lane and street, 
In silence lies 
Concealed from human eyes 
A vast empire of life. 

In every clod 
Beneath the sod, 
'Midst waste, and wear, 
There slumbers everywhere, 
An unseen, vital power. 

We bend the ear 
As if to hear 
In echoes low. 
Its tides in underflow, 

Ivike voices from the dust. 

We halt and wait : 
No pulses beat, 
Nor faintest sound 
Breaks from the voiceless ground, 

And death's reign seems supreme. 

But spring showers fall, 
And over all 
This field of death 
The sunshine's warming breath 
Rests like the dew of life. 



The night is past — 
Day dawns at last; 
And morning smiles 



— 45 



On meadows, fields, and hills, 
And life is everj'where. 

It blooms in flowers — 
It sings in bowers — 
It swells in buds, 
And floats, and swims in floods, 
And triumphs over death. 



Sunshine. 



O the beautiful, golden sunshine! 
How it chases away the night — 
How it gilds the world with light — 
How it plays upon the hills. 
And sparkles on the rills, 

Till the world is aglow with light. 

O the beautiful, morning sunshine ! 
How it wakes into life the flowers 
When bathed by the gentle showers. 
How clear the wild birds sing 
When the warming sun of spring 

Invite them to woodland bowers. 

O the beautiful, cheerful sunshine! 

How the sad, lonely heart it can cheer 
When the days are cloudy and drear. 
How it lights the hours of gloom — 
How its smile will brighten the home 

When the hearthstone is shadowed by care 



— 46 



The Draped Door. 



O thou mute sign of grief, too well we know 
Thy meaning ! It needs no voice to tell the 
Tale of woe within the darkened home where 
Eyes of love are dim with tears, and hearts are 
Breaking with their weight of sorrow, for by 
Thy gloomy presence we can see that Death 
Has come. 

The whispered word — the slow and 
Careful step — the vacant chair before the 
Cheerless hearth — all these, O death, are signs of 
Thy unwelcome call ! 

There are no homes so 
Bright — no hearts so true — no joys of life so 
Sweet — that thou wilt not invade them all, and 
With remorseless greed destroy the fondest 
Hopes the heart has ever felt. The cheek of 
Youth, aglow with light enkindled by the 
Dreams of wealth and fame, with but one touch of 
Thine will fade in one short hour, and in thy 
Presence all the hopes of life will vanish 
lyike the morning mists. 

The mother prints a 
Kiss upon her baby's cheek while sleeping 
On her breast, but thy all blighting touch will 
Chill its tender heart as frost will chill the 
Buds of Spring, nor tears nor ministries of 
lyove nor prayers, will warm it into life. 

The blushing bride, while yet the dews of love's 
First kiss were on her cheek, has felt thy breath ; 
And he upon whose arm she leaned has borne 
Her from the sacred place a corpse. Manhood 
With steady step — with will to do and dare 



— 47 — 



On any field where duty calls — without 
A fear of any foe — will pale and fly 
At thy approach as flies the hare before 
The hunter's horn. 

The pleading eyes of grief 
Are turned to thee in vain as thy dark 
Shadow falls acrost the threshold of the 
Home, or gathers like the mists of night on 
Pillows soft as down, on which in sweet repose 
Are sleeping those we love. But tears do not 
Avail, O Death to touch a heart as cold 
As thine ; for thou hast never felt one throb 
Of sympathy or love ; and sighs and sobs 
Have never moved nor melted thee at all ; 
Nor prayer of bleeding, broken hearts has 
Ever turned away thy fatal blow. 
The hand of skill has tried in vain to turn 
Thee back, and wrest from thy unyielding grasp 
The arrows aimed at those whose deeds have 
Been a benediction to the world ; but 
Thy unerring stroke has smitten to the 
Dust the bravest foe that ever faced thee 
On the fields of strife. 

No conqueror ever 
Rode the steeds of war o'er bloody fields, or 
Led his marshalled hosts with such resistless 
Power amidst the fray of death, that with 
His laurels yet upon his brow, thou hast 
Not wrested from his hand his bloodstained sword, 
And led him as a captive to his grave. 
Beneath thy reign the earth is one vast place 
Of tombs — an empire where the dead are more 
Than all the living. 

Every day the air 
Is vocal with the sound of tolling bells, 
That in their plaintive tones tell us thou hast 



— 48 



Come again on thy unwelcome errand. 
The dreamy days of autumn come with stores 
Of garnered grain and golden fruits — Spring with 
Its swelling buds and new born flowers, to 
Quicken up the sluggish pulse of earth; and 
Summer with its glowing skies and heated 
Breath — as if to hurry nature's tardy 
Steps, lest winter come too soon — but every 
Season is thy harvest time, O Death ! 

No 
Prairies stretch so far ; no mountains rise so 
High that thou dost not explore them all in 
Search of those who seek a place on which thy 
Shadow never falls. 

Down in old Ocean's 
Caves, in w^akeless sleep uncounted thousands 
Lie unmindful of the hideous forms 
Which creep and crawl about them, and heeding 
Not the voices of the deep, which echo 
Through the slimy vaults in which the lost repose. 

O God of heaven, and is this all there 
Is of life ? A fitful dream of love and 
Joy; a day of smiles and tears, a few short 
Hours of love and home, and then the loneness 
Of the grave ? Are all the longings of the 
Soul for truth and love — its ceasele-ss yearning 
For Immoral Life where we shall meet our 
Loved and lost, a cheat? 

Does Hope light up its 
Fires amidst the gloom of earth to lure us 
On till Death's dark night shall come, and then pale 
Out forevermore ? 



— 49 — 



Did He who gave to 
Us a nature like His owu, out of the 
Depths of which there ever springs exalting 
Faith and animating hopes, intend to 
Mock us in our deepest grief ? 

Thy reign, O 
Death, must end ; for He who once was dead, now 
Lives, and has the power to vacate all 
The graves in which thy victims sleep ; for since 
The morn at Joseph's tomb, we are no more 
Thy slaves ! 

O Death where is thy dreaded sting ? 



The Silent City. 



I walk its shaded streets alone ; 
Its polished mansions all are shut, 
I speak the names of those I love. 
And listen — but they answer not. 

A hush falls on the saddened heart. 
And silently love's tears will fall. 
As standing by these noiseless homes, 
Loved ones in silence I recall. 

The birds sing softly from the bough 
As if they fear to waken those 
Who, lying in their low% green tents, 
Have found an undisturbed repose. 

Here hands of love have planted flowers 
That silently will bud, and bloom ; 
And stilly as the tides of love. 
Will freight the air with sweet perfume. 



— 50 — 



Silent Forces. 



' ' Thy thoughts are very deep. ' ' 

Down on the grass, close to the maple's roots 
I press my ear to catch the first, faint stroke 
Of Nature's ponderous Engine. Long have 
Its fires been banked, and from its nostrils 
Not one breath of life in all the dreary 
Months has been emitted. 

The autumn tints 
Paled out, and soon the sapless boughs tossed 
Down their faded leaves upon the withered 
Grass, to be the sport of winds and trampled 
In the dust, and left the grim, bare trunks, and 
Naked limbs, like skeletons denuded 
Of their flesh. 

The reservoir of life was 
So securely locked that not the faintest heart 
Beat could be heard, and not a pulse be felt 
In root, nor trunk, nor bough. 

The wrappings of 
The snow are lifted from the hills, and warming suns 
Are kindling up the smoldering fires of earth 
Which soon will force the tiny jets of life 
Through all the dormant buds and sleeping flowers. 
The throttle, now, of Nature's latent power 
Is held by a secreted hand, and every 
Vital force in action, or at rest, is 
Under its control. 

As noiseless as the 
Birth of thought, it hoists the mystic gates of 
lyife, and quiet as the blush of love that 



— 51 



Steals on girlhood's cheek, the flowing tides mount 

Up the pulseless trunk, and waken from its 

L,ong repose each sleeping bud. They touch the 

Tiny seeds that seem to lie in wakeless 

Sleep, long hidden from the sunbeams searching 

Rays, and life and beauty leap from icy 

Tombs and winding sheets of frost. 

Each rootlet 
Feels the warming touch of earth's new kindled 
Fires ; and thrills of life, like nerve throbs wakened 
By electric wires, will load the boughs with 
Luscious fruits, and gild the hills and vales with 
Golden grain. 

We stand with awe amidst this 
Grand display of power that shaped the atoms 
Into worlds as silent as the night dews 
Fall, and teel that He whose hand built up the 
Universe of things, and opened up the 
Vast empires of Life, made man a Living Soul. 



52 



El-Capitaii. 

El-Capitan, a stranger from afar 
Is sitting at thy feet to sing thy praise. 
But as I gaze upon thy cold, bare brow, 
And rigid face, there comes upon my soul 
An awe that seals my lips, and Silence 
Bids my tongue be still. 

But if I do not speak 
Then bursts my very heart for utterance : 
For who can look upon thy form so grand — 
Thy brow encircled with the glory of 
Uncounted years — and feel no inspiration ? 

El-Capitan, hadst thou thy birth when Night 

And Chaos brooded o'er the new-made world, 

E'er suns and light of stars broke through the gloom 

That draped the cradle of the infant earth ? 

Were seething flames thy swaddling cloths ? And wast 

Thou born 'midst bursting magazines concealed 

In depths of liquid fire, and tossed in air 

As school boys toss their tiny balls ? 

Thou canst not speak, El-Capitan, to him 
Who fain w^ould know the number of thy years; 
But if thou hadst a tongue what wonders thou 
Couldst tell ! 

Siuce thou wast born the earth has passed 
From infancy to age. Thou must have seen 
The dawning of the day when first began 
The caravan of life; of life in ocean, 
Sea and air; all life that creeps or crawls or 
Flies — long, long before them all thou must have been. 
When earthquake shocks tossed up the mountain 



— 53 — 



Peaks, changing old ocean's mucky bed to 

Rugged hills and fertile plains, and dotted 

Seas with shores and reefs— thou must have seen it all 

When storms have shrieked like vengeful spirits 

Round thy head, and thunderbolts fresh forged 

From Vulcan's fires have hissed at thee, didst thou 

Feel any terror ? Thou art too great for fear ! 

The floods have leaped from dizzy heights, and 
Echoed over mountain peaks, and through the 
Forests aisles; while Merced's rippling waves like 
Tones from silver lutes, have been for thee 
One ceaseless hymn of praise. Upon thy cheek 
Like smiles upon the face of love, I see 
The glow of morning fall; and never does 
The sun go down without a good-night kiss 
For grand El-Capitan ! 

But I can see 
That thou art growing old! 

God's law of change 
Which nothing can escape hath written on 
Thy brow that thou art dust; and unto dust 
Thou, too, shall by and by, return. Deep on 
Thy flinty brow the hand of time has left 
The mark of years; and though thy form is yet 
Unbent, still waste and wear have left upon 
Thy stalwart frame the mark of age. 

Hadst thou 
A soul, El-Capitan, nor flight of years 
Nor wasting form, could end thy being; for 
Mind is more than dust, and spirit-life out 
Lasts the mould in which it is contained. 
But he who sings thy praise and prophesies 



54 



Thy destiny shall live when not a trace 

Of thy grand form remains in this historic Valley. 

In that eventful time, when from 
The shipwrecked earth God shall evolve a new 
Creation; then may I roam again these 
Grand, enchanted grounds, and gratefully recall 
The inspiration of thy presence. 

And now a long good-bye! 

He, who thus has 
Sung thy praise, must haste away where duty 
Calls, and nevermore may gaze upon thy form. 
But on my soul thine image is enstaraped, 
And in the far away will I re-live 
The hours I've spent with thee, El-Capitan! 



— 55 



Silence. 



As I sit amidst the gloaming, 

Silence comes with mufiBed tread — 

Seals my lips with gentle fingers- 
Lays her hand upon my head, 

While I dream of joys departed — 

Happy days so quickly fled ! 

In the far away are pictures 
Never sketched by human art, — 

Locked securely in Love' s storehouse- 
Precious pictures of the heart — 
Reproduced in all their beauty — 
Tinted with Love's fadeless light. 

When I turn my footsteps homeward, 

Silence meets me at the door — 

Whispers of a cheerless hearthstone 
Where the light will shine no more. 

And no loving words of welcome 

Ever fall upon my ear. 

All the night it keeps its vigil 

Quietly beside my bed — 

Gently watches o'er my pillow 
Where I rest my weary head ; 

And it seems to walk beside me 

Everywhere my pathway leads. 

But it comes to cheer, and bless me ; 

Soothes me by its subtle power — 

Kindles light amidst the darkness, 
Never leaves me for an hour — 

Watches every falling tear drop — 

Catches every whispered prayer. 



56 — 



Heart- Whispers. 



Do you know, wife, that the buds and the flowers 
Have pushed themselves up through the lawn? 

That the robins and blue birds from south-land are here 
And the ice and the snow are all gone ? 

Yon remember, wife, with what pleasure in spring 
We watched the first buds and first flowers — 

How we listened to catch the first song of the birds 
As they came from the south' s sunny bowers. 

It seems to me, wife, that the vines and the flowers 

On which you bestowed so much care. 
Will miss you when budding and blooming time comes, 

And will wonder that you are not here. 

They seemed soon to pale, and look lonesome, wife, 
When you went from the dear little home ; 

And sometimes I fanc}^ they plaintively ask 
If indeed you will nevermore come. 

Will it please you, wife, if I plant these flowers 
On the dear sacred spot where you sleep ? 

You will know that above you, by day and by niglit 
Their sweet vigil of love they will keep. 

Will you know when I sit by your side, wife, 
And am watching these beautiful flowers 

That they'll 'mind me of you and our dear little home. 
And the love of its bright, happy hours ? 

Do you miss me, wife, as you stroll 'midst the flowers? 

Do you think of our earth home below ? 
Do you know I am counting the strokes of Time' s clock 

And am waiting my summons to go ? 

O wife, how my heart often thrills with delight 

As I dream of our home life above, 
And hear your " All Hail," as I reach the bright shore 

When we meet in the Home I^and of Love ! 



— 57 



Some One is Calling^. 



I thought I heard a voice, 
And bent my ear and listened : 

Like love's soft note 

It seemed to float 
Upon the morning air 
From out an opening flower 
On which a dew drop glistened. 

Its petals seemed like lips 
Which to my heart had spoken 

In undertone, 

As all alone 
Lrike one entranced I stood, 
Watching the opening bud 
Which seemed like love's pure token. 

I stooped and kissed the flower. 
My warm tears on it falling. 

I wept alone, 

For one was gone. 
But just beyond the river 
Love's flowers bloom forever. 
And — hark ! Some one is calling. 



— 58 



Niagara. 

A hush falls on the soul, awed by the 
Greatness of thy power, and in thy presence 
Thought and faith receive new inspiration. 
Imagination kindles up anew 
Its fires while listening to thy matchless 
Voice, and from the deep, dim past, before the 
Count of years began, it hears an echo 
Of thy ceaseless hymn of praise. 

Before the 
Now of earth began ; long, long before the 
Red Man built his night-fires on the verdant 
Banks and laid him down to rest when wearied 
By the chase ; in unseen grandeur o'er thy 
Rocky brow thy liquid torrents rolled, 
And lost amidst the thickening mists, 
Sank in the awful gorge below. 

The tide 
Of time has onward rolled, and age on 
Age is lost amidst the sea of years since 
First thy thunder drum was heard, as thy fast 
Flowing flood is lost amidst the ocean's 
Vast expanse. The power of thy resistless 
Tide has chiseled in the flinty rock a 
Flume through which thy ceaseless floods have passed, 
Before the clock of time began to strike 
The circling years. 

The echoes of thy 
Voice were borne upon the winds through forest aisles, 
And tossed from forest boughs, and over 
Hills and vales in ceaseless diapasons, 
Before the tones of human voice or harp 
Were ever heard. 



— 69 



The graves of L,undy's Lane 
Are moistened with thy spray, borne on the 
Winged winds, and sifted down as if to 
Keep in ceaseless bloom the flowers that love has 
Planted ; but on the ear of death thy tones 
Are never heard, and undisturbed its 
Fallen heroes sleep away the passing 
Years, nor war's alarms, nor yet thy deaf 'ning 
Roar, shall wake them from their long repose. 

From 
Out the awful gorge that slumbers at thy 
Feet, white clouds of mist in circling wreaths 
Arise, like vapors from some boiling sea, and 
On thy emerald brow the sunbeams play, 
As lightnings sport amidst the clouds and weave 
An arch of golden light from shore to shore. 

Amidst this grand display of power, the 
Spirit stands entranced, and in adoring 
Love to Him who Was, and Is, and Shall Be 
Evermore, pours out a hymn of praise, that 
He who made thee great, made him who stands 
And listens to thy voice, A Living Soul, 



60 



Does Death End All? 



What heart of grief when standing by its dead, 
With love's soft hand upon the pulseless breast, 
Has not repeated o'er and o'er again, 
This question of all ages? Out from the 
Dim and distant past — in every land — from every 
Clime — the echo of this question comes, as 
If some bursting heart were shadowed by 
An awful doubt. 

The fear and pain of death 
Have seized upon the good and great; the 
Giant in his strength ; the warrior in 
His coat of mail; and monarchs guarded by 
A thousand blades; but ever when the last 
Hour comes, the stricken heart cries out in grief: 
Shall not the dying live again? 

The cold 
Mute lips and palsied tongue that used to 
Answer back in love's sweet words are silent 
Now, for death reveals no secrets to the 
Mourner's plaintive call. 

Whence comes this greed of 
Love that those to whom the heart has clung in 
Fondness like a worship are still to us 
Henceforth as in the past, our living friends ? 
Cannot the spirit know itself, its own 
Exalted nature ? May not its mode of 
Being be transformed, and yet itself not 
Changed, save in unfolding powers ? 

Has fancy 
Wove a magic but delusive web of 
Thought and faith about the soul and wakened 



()1 — 



In the heart the fondest hopes that but a 
Touch of death will blast ? Is it a mythic 
Light that faith in an immortal life 
Throws on the night of death to rob it of 
Its gloom, and kindle in the saddened 
Heart a transient hope, to be extinguished 
By the grave ? 

Can faith in falsehood build a 
Noble life and beautify the soul with 
Virtue' s grand achievements ? The very thought 
Of an immortal life inspires the heart 
In which it dwells to pure and holy living. 
Beyond the ken of earth, where waves of care 
Break on the heart as sea waves dash upon 
The shore, and toss their blinding spray high in 
The air, and chafe and fret the rock bound coast, 
So does the soul look out upon a bright to-morrow. 

From infancy 
To manhood and old age; from hour to hour 
Since thought began, and consciousness stamped 
On the soul a knowledge of itself; 'midst 
All the change of years, the real life is 
Still unchanged. The vail of flesh which life's 
Mysterious loom, evolved with matchless 
Skill, now hides from human eyes the spirit-self, 
And time has changed the bloom of youth to 
Pale and furrowed cheeks and wrinkled brows, 
But running like a thread of gold through all 
The years, the soul life is the same. 

Decay and 
Death belong to matter, not to mind; 
For while the outward self goes down with age 
And dust returns to dust, the spirit life 



62 — 



Renews its power, and as the years go 
By unfolds in greater strength. 

In God's great 
Plan of life, though self-hood changes not, the 
Mode of life becomes transformed, and latent 
Powers unfold as hidden truths flash out 
Before the Soul. The seed conceals the flower 
And luscious fruit which only wait the touch 
Of nature's magic wand to bud and bloom 
And perfect their existence. 

We know in 
Part, nor does it now appear what heights of 
Power the spirit shall ascend when freed 
From dust; but with eternal years in which to 
Search for truth, and learn of God, we then shall 
Know what now transcends the power of finite miuds. 



63 — 



Twilight. 

Sacred, twilight hour — 
The day bids earth good-night, 
And faintly comes the light 

Of the descending sun. 
The soft winds fan my brow, 
And murmur sweet, and low, 

L,ike nature's vesper song. 

Quiet, twilight hour: 
Now kindred spirits meet 
And whispered vows repeat, 

Which none but God can hear. 
The weary halt for rest — 
Peace soothes the anxious breast. 

And Paradise seems near. 

lyOvely, twilight hour: 
I sit me down alone 
And think of loved ones gone 

Where twilight never comes. 
Out through my tear-dimmed eyes, 
Beyond the star-lit skies, 

I see their spirit forms. 



64 



The Graveyard by the Bay. 



Sugg'ested by a recent visit to Johnson's Island, where in a 
deeply wooded spot, overlooking- the beautiful bay, sleep 206 of the 
flower of the southland — prisoners on the Island during the war of 
'61-'65. 

The author of this poem was a pastor in the city of Sandusky 
during the time the prisoners were in confinement and was familiar 
with all the circumstances. 



Like a gem in silver setting 
On whose face the sunbeams play ; 
There's an island, now historic, 
Nestled in Sandusky Bay — 

A beautiful, dimpled bay, 

The Venice of America. 

On this island once the Indian 
Built his wigwam ; had his camp ; 
Fished and hunted in his freedom ; 
Slept midst its dews and damp — 

Here by this beautiful bay— 

The Venice of America. 

Sweet as vesper hymns at twilight, 
Soft as notes of silver lutes 
Is the music of its wavelets, 
As upon the air it floats — 

Floating o'er the quiet bay — 

The Venice of America. 

Freedom's sky was bright above it, 
Lighted up its woodland bowers ; 
Peace and plenty smiled upon it ; 
Beauty flecked its glades with flowers- 

Flower-fiecked island of the bay- 

The Venice of America. 



65 



But a storm cloud from the southland, 
From the land of far away, 
Threw its gloomy shadow northward 
On the island in the bay — 

Peaceful island of the bay — 

The Venice of America. 

Soon the dream of peace was ended, 

And the wavelets in their flow 

Sighed like mourners crushed with sorrow — 

Crushed beneath a weight of woe — 

War was brooding o'er the bay — 

The Venice of America. 

Soldier prisoners from the war fields 

Here were guarded night and day, 

Sang their home songs ; dreamed of loved ones, 

On this island in the bay — 

Guarded island in the bay — 

The Venice of America. 

Sometimes voices seemed to call them 
From the scenes of far away ; 
Called the brother, lover, husband, 
On the island in the bay — 

The prison island in the bay — 

The Venice of America. 

Here no call to arms e'er wakes them. 
Nor the noise of shot and shell ; 
Still the death clouds often gathered, 
And the death dew often fell 

On the island in the baj- — 

The Venice of America. 

Vacant hearthstones in the home land 

Waited for the coming day 

When the brave boys here imprisoned 



66 



Would in triumph turn away 

From the island in the bay — 
The Venice of America. 

But the hearthstones still are vacant ; 
And they will be evermore ; 
For many soldiers here are sleeping 
On this distant island shore — 

In the graveyard by the ba}^ — 

The Venice of America. 

States may build no shaft above them ; 
Martial bands no dirges play ; 
Distant friends ne'er weep beside them 
In this graveyard by the bay — 

Quiet graveyard by the bay — 

The Venice of America. 

But though once as foes we held them, 
On their " tents" fresh flowers we'll lay 
While above them floats our banner, 
O'er the graveyard by the bay — 

Graves of soldiers by the bay — 

The Venice of America. 



— 67 



Life's Hiffhlaiids. 



We are tenting here awhile, 
With storm clouds overhead, 
Filling the heart with dread — 
And turn our wistful eyes 
Out on the gray, cold skies, 
To catch the morning's smile. 

Over the hills of Time— 
I/ike mountains far away 
Bathed in the light of day — 
Faith sees life's highlands rise, 
Beneath the cloudless skies 
Of heaven's unchanging clime. 

Beyond life's farthest bound— 
The shore-line of the years. 
Made up of smiles and tears — 
Hope catches gleams of light, 
Amidst the gloom of night, 
Where endless life is found. 



68 



The Morning" Prayer. 



When early morning tints the skirts of night 
And on the waking world sifts down the light; 
How blest to steal away 
To greet the new-born day; 
And all alone, somewhere, 
Pour out the soul in prayer. 

Before the world's great heart begins to beat — 
Before the toiler's halt with weary feet, 

And cares come like a tide — 

Ere clouds begin to hide 

The sunshine of the day — 

O then how sweet to pray! 

When night in sleepless hours has passed away 
And longingly we've waited for the day — 
If sadness clouds the heart 
And tears of sorrow start ; 
Twill lighten all the way 
And cheer the heart, to pray. 



69 



A Woman's Hate. 



The tale is one of shame : the storj- of a 
Dreadful wrong inflicted on an honest 
Man because he dared to tell the truth. 

'Tis strange how truth will kindle into flame 
The fires of hate toward those who tell us 
Of our sins. Men often shun the light of 
Truth, lest in its glow should be revealed 
The blots that vice has left upon the soul. 

'Twas this, and only this, that stirred the 
Hatred of Herodia's heart ; for John had 
Told the King he could not have his brother's 
Wife, and not be guilty in the sight of 
God, and from that hour she planned to take the 
lyife of John the Baptist. 

And now the time 
Had come to do the bloody deed ! 

'Twas at 
A Royal feast, the birthday of the King, 
When from his realm his captains and high lords 
Had come to do him honor. Young men of 
Princely birth, and men of great renown were 
There ; while queenly women graced the court, thus 
Adding beauty's charm to this auspicious day. 
In festive scenes the hours passed gaily by, 
And music's merry tones called to the royal 
Dance. 

Among the young and beautiful that 
Joined the dance there was a queenly girl of 
Modest mien, whose charms so won King Herod's 
Heart, that when the music ceased, he called 
Her to his side, and in the presence of 



70 



His lords, he promised with an oath to give 
Her any boon that she might ask — so pleased 
Was he with this young girl. 

Bewildered 
By a compliment so rare, and promise 
Of a place and power of which she never 
Had a dream, she stood a moment by the 
King like one entraced; then hastened from the 
Hall to tell her mother of the vow he 
Made, and asked her what to choose of all that 
Herod promised. 

Herodias saw her 
Hour to be revenged on her reprover 
Now had come : 

" Go tell the King," she said, " to 
Give you on this charger, by and by, the 
Head of John the Baptist ! " 

The daughter heard 
The fearful words with horror in her look. 
But dared not disobey. The blush of beauty 
I^eft her cheek, and pale and sad, she sought the 
Presence of the King. A chill of fear stole 
On her heart, lest Herod be displeased, and 
Spurn her from his presence. 

A hush fell on 
The merry group about the King, as for a 
Moment Herod waited for the girl's request. 

"O King," the maiden said, " I ask that thou 
Wilt send me, by and by, the head of John 
The Baptist !" 

A thunder bolt from out the 
Cloudless sky, would not have so amazed 
The King, as did this strange request, 



71 — 



There stood 
A gentle girl with heart unsoiledby sin; whose 
Soul had never felt the vengful j5res of 
Hate, asking as a Royal gift the head 
Of him, whom Herod oft had honored. 
A painful silence fell on all the group, 
While every eye was turned upon the King, 

Would he recall the promise he had made ; Or would he 
For his honor's sake add murder to his list 
Of sins ? 

The King must needs redeem his pledge — 
The man of God must die ! 

He summoned to 
His side a soldier of his guard, and bade 
Him go and bring the head. 

The prophet lay 
Upon his prison bed in sweeter sleep 
Than Herod ever knew upon his bed 
Of down, with his adult' rous wife. He heard 
The sound of footsteps in the room, and thought 
Perhaps the King had ordered his release. 
The guard stood at the grated door, and 
Softly spoke the prisoner's name, who 
Answered from his bed of straw, and asked 
The reason of the midnight call. 

The soldier 
Stood a moment lost in thought — like one when 
Duty means inflicted pain — then low and 
Clear, he read to him the King's decree. 

The prophet heard the words of doom, and 
Bowed his head as if in silent prayer ; 
Then quietly as if he bade him to 



— 72 - 



The banquet hall, he left his gloomy cell 

And followed to the fatal block, and 

Calmy waited for the blow of death. He knelt 

Upon the cold, hard floor, as if it were 

The place and hour of prayer, and he 

Had come to worship. 

With whetted blade 
The soldier stood beside the prostrate form 
To execute the King's command. The place 
Was silent as the house of death — both now 
Are ready for the fatal blow ! With one 
Dull thud it fell upon the prophet's neck 
And from the bloody block the trunkless head 
Dropped at the soldier's feet, and turned its 
Glazing eyes upon the man who struck the 
Murd'rous blow. The gurgle of the flowing 
Blood was all that broke the awful stillness. 
The hair lay in disheveled locks upon 
The brow, and spots of blood were on the 
Paling cheeks. 

Without a word the soldier took 
The head, and laid it on the charger 
Which the queen had sent, and sought again 
The banquet hall. He stood a moment at the 
Door, and asked to see the girl to whom, by 
Order of the King, the head belonged. She came 
Adorned with costly robes and jeweled 
Hands ; but when she saw the bloody prize 
She turned away like one appalled — then 
Took the head and hastened to her mother. 

Herodias smiled, and took it from her 
Daughter's hand, and with a look of hate touched 
The cold, mute lips that nevermore would tell her 
Of her sins. She dallied with the matted 
lyocks that lay upon his brow, and joyed to 



— 73 — 

Think the tongue once eloquent with words of 
Truth would nevermore disturb her guilty 
Soul with its reproofs. 

Herodia's 
Triumph was complete ! The man of God who 
Told her of her guilt was dead ! 

It was the 
Transient triumph of a Wicked Woman's Hate. 



When The Spirit Steals Away. 



When the spirit steals away — 
Steals from out its home of clay- 
Does it linger 'round the spot, 
Though in form we see it not ? 
Does it see love' s falling tear — 
Does love's sob fall on its ear ? 
Can it hear the lone heart pray 
After it has gone away ? 

Something answers to me, yes; 
Spirit life is not a guess. 
Ivove life does not cease to be 
When our loved we cannot see. 
Spirit life is not a breath 
That ceases in the hour of death. 
No, spirits are not born to die 
Their birthright is — Eternity. 



— 74 — 
The Dear Old Flag. 



' IVAo shall take it down f ' ' 

* * iis * ^,i * 

Millions of loyal hearts are standing 'neath 
The dear old flag to-day with eyes aglow 
With patriotic pride and souls inspired 
By Freedom's quenchless love, and once again 
Repeat: " What foreign foe or traitor's hands 
At home shall dare to take it down ? " 

From shore 
To shore — from out the North-land where the sons 
Of toil 'midst mines and forests build their homes — 
Beneath the South-land's sunny skies where brave 
And loyal men have learned to love their 
Country's flag — from " Boj^s in Blue " and " Boys in 
Gray " the answer comes: " I^et curses be on 
Every man that offers it dishonor! " 
Brave men have borne our flag across the seas 
At duty's call, and shaken out its folds 
O'er islands far away, and evermore 
Will Freeman guard its honor. 

Hawaii 
Knocked at Freedom's door, and stretched her hands 
In prayer towards Freedom's holy shrine; 
And now our banner floats above her hills 
And throws its shadow on her fertile vales 
Which daily echo with the songs of peace. 

The day of freedom dawns on Filipinos' 
Distant homes, and hills now draped with clouds 
Of war and fields all drenched in blood shall 
Bloom beneath the dear old flag, while on their 
Vales the smile of peace will rest. 

Proudly our 
Banner floats on Porto Rico's cliffs where once 
The " dogs of war " frowned down as Freeman 



— 75 



Bore it up the steeps, aud now the dews of 
Peace are quick' ning into life the drooping 
Buds of Hope, and Joy is springing up in 
Crushed and bleeding hearts. 

On Santiago's 
Heights and Cuba's wave-washed beach, on which 
Spain's navy rusts and rots, our grand old flag 
Keeps vigil day and night as if to guard 
The skeletons of steel that strew the shore. 

But, grander still! The stars and stripes now float 
Above the wrecked and ruined Maine, to guard its 
Wat'ry grave and keep forever green the 
Mem'ry of our gallant boys who sleep 
Away the years in undisturbed repose. 

No monumental shaft, nor granite pile 
More grand can mark the resting place of our 
Heroic dead than is the dear old flag that 
Waves in triumph o'er their pulseless breasts. 



76 



Only Tenting. 



I am tenting, only tenting 

On the lowlands of the Now — 
Watching, as the evening shadows 

In the gloaming, longer grow. 
Years have left their mark upon me — 

Dimming eyes and wrinkled brow; 
But in peace I'm only waiting 

Just to strike my tent, and go. 

On life's hilltops far behind me 

Mem'ry's pictures still are bright; 
And the path o'er which I've traveled 

Still is all aglow with light. 
But the sun of life is sinking, 

And the evening shades are here; 
Yet the skies are bright above me 

And the stars are shining clear. 

Sunset skies are only blushes 

On the cheek of coming night, 
As it steals upon the landscape 

Tinted with the fading light. 
So the twilight softly gathers 

On my tent, while at its door 
I sit waiting for my orders — 

Orders from life's other shore. 



— 77 — 



The Lost Navy. 



On Cuba's rocky shore, as corpses tossed 
Upon the beach by dashing waves when storms 
Have swept the seas, the battleships of Spain 
Are strewed like skeletons. The waters 
Dash against their iron sides and riddled 
Hulks, as if the very floods were angry 
At their presence. 

Colombo lies upon 
The rocks, deserted by her gallant crew; 
Her mighty engines noiseless as the house 
Of death; and from her heart of fire comes not 
A throb of life. 

Her guns though pregnant still 
With shot and shell, in sullen silence lie 
Upon her decks, while close beside them are 
The mangled forms of brave and loyal men 
Who fell in her defense. The wild waves sport 
Around her shattered form as if to mock 
Her humbled pride, and wash her blood-stained 
Decks; while in her magazines repose the 
Thunderbolts of war, but powerless now to 
Save her from her foes. 

Viscaya, once the 
Pride of Spain; and sent to sport along our 
Coast, and drive our Infant Navy from the 
Seas; all torn with shot and shell, lies helpless 
Near Colombo's corpse, and nevermore shall 
Breast the storm, or plow the waves. 

Fleet were these 
Iron steeds — the Oregon was fleeter 
Still — and soon her well-aimed shells, charged 



78 



With secreted fire, had wrapped her in a 
Shroud of flame, and dashed her like a fire 
Brand on the rocks; while o'er her charred and 
Mangled hulk, the wild waves toss their spray 
And chant her requiem. 

Marie Theresa, too, 
Which bore Cervera's flag, beneath the folds 
Of which her brave commander stood and watched 
The fearful race of death, lies rusting on 
The sterile sands, her engines hailed by 
The Brooklyn's deadly fire. 

The Oquendo, 
Pluton, Furor, each in their turn, fell 'neath 
The matchless aim of our skilled gunners, and 
Lie upon the rocky beach like skeletons 
Tossed up by dashing waves. 

Strong were the hands 
And braver still the hearts that faced the storm 
Of death to save their nation's honor; but 
Battleships with ribs of steel and sides of 
Iron, went down before our murderous guns 
As rocks are shattered by volcanic fires. 

Magnificence in ruins; a nation's 
Squadron blotted out in but a single 
Day; and o'er Spain's ruined fleet in triumph 
Waves the Great Republic's Flag! 

Beneath its 
Ample folds, oppression's shadow soon will 
Flee, as clouds roll back before the morning 
Sun; and rest and peace will reign like gentle 
Spirits over desolated homes. The coming 
Years will hush the storms of war, and hearts that 
Throb and chafe with anger now, will soften 



79 



In the light of peace; and peoples in whose 
Souls the fires of hate now burn, will gather 
Round the graves of the heroic dead of 
Friend and foe alike, and chant above the 
lyonely graves in which they rest, the anthems 
Of the Free. 

On Cuba's rock-ribbed shore, where 
Ruined battleships are strewed, and heroes 
Fought and fell; in years not far away, the 
Lovers of the true and brave will join in 
Patriotic pride to rear the polished 
Shaft and monumental pile, that deeds so 
Grand shall never be forgotten. 

The Bow 
Of Freedom soon will span the globe, for crowns 
Are falling from the heads of kings, and thrones 
Of despots soon will crumble into dust. 



— 80 



He Toucheth the Hills and They Smoke." 



(The morning^ dawned on Mont Pelee as quietly as childhood 
wakens from a night of sleep.) 



The new-born day looked down as 
Calmly on its gray, cold brow, as if no 
Slumbering magazines of death were 
Hidden 'neath its granite base awaiting 
The exploding touch of an Almighty hand. 
The years had come and gone without alarm ; 
For not one breath had been emitted from 
The nostrils of Pelee. 

Peace and safety 
Hung their bows of hope upon the slopes, and 
Plenty smiled upon the hills and valleys. 
Wealth took shelter ' neath her cliffs. And love built 
Homes amidst her foothills. Her heart of fire 
Sometimes had throbbed against her flinty ribs 
As if in pain ; and muffled groans, like roll 
Of thunder far away — the prelude of 
A coming storm — had echoed o'er the hills 
And up the mountain side, but still the tides 
Of life swept on in Pierre's crowded streets, 
And on her busy wharfs. 

A moment more 
And all was changed ! 

An unseen finger 
Touched the secret key of death, and in the 
Twinkling of an eye the smoldering fires 
Leapt from their lairs, and in one winding sheet 
Of flame enshrouded every living thing. 
Human knowledge pales, and human wisdom 
Veils its face ; while reason stands in silent 
Awe amidst such grand displays of power. 



81 



Science has trained its telescopes and searched 

For comets, suns, and worlds embedded in 

The distant depths of space — it tells the hour 

When in the far off years eclipses will 

Occur to veil the sun and drape the moon — 

With microscopic eye it searches out 

The atom's hiding place — it weighs the beams 

Of light that glisten in the dews ; but grand 

As its achievements are, and vast as are 

Its fields of thought which it explores, never 

Has it found the secret place where wisdom 

Lays her plans, nor yet the key by which it 

Can unlock the council chamber of Almighty God. 



The Changeless Forever. 



I hav^e read of a land where no sun ever shines 
Where the shadows of night never fall ; 

Yet the hills glow with light, 

And the valleys are bright, 
For the Lamb is the light of them all. 

I have read of a land where no tears ever fall — 
Where the years never wrinkle the brow ; 

Where, 'midst beauties untold 

Spirit life will unfold, 
As the Ages unceasingly flow. 

I have read of a land where death' s gloom never falls 
On the homes beyond the dark river. 

Where there's joy without pain — 

Where friends meet again 
In the land of the Changeless Forever. 



82 



Our Dead President. 



Once more there's crape upon the door of 
Freedom's Temple. 

Its flag is draped, and droops 
At half mast on its dome, and Silence, like 
A spirit dumb with grief, broods in its halls. 
And every sound is like an echo from 
The grave. 

The nation is in tears, and Grief 
Is the unwelcome guest of every home. 
Uncounted tearful eyes turn to the noiseless 
Chamber where, in wakeless sleep, our honored 
Dead reposes, calm as one who seeks his couch 
For peaceful rest. 

The echo of our woe 
Has broke on lands beyond the seas, and 
Islands far away, and everywhere the 
World's great heart has shared our grief and tears. 

Our President is dead ; but Freedom lives. 

Assassin hands may smite the men who guide 
The Ship of State, and anarchy, in secret, 
Plot the overthrow of law ; but every 
Wound inflicted by a traitor's hand, and 
Every patriotic tear the sons of 
Freedom shed, will be like solemn vows breathed 
Around the mangled form of our great dead, that 
Liberty and Right will guard with jealous 
Care, forevermore, the Great Republic. 

The price of liberty is much, because 
Its worth is much ; but if its altar fires 



— 83 



Must needs be kept alive by offering up 

Our honored sons, a loyal people, though 

It be with tears and blood, will bring the gifts, 

And in the name of our illustrious dead. 

Will sacrifice them all to Freedom's Holy Cause. 



Death's Harvest. 



O Harvester, Harvester stay thy cold hand ! 

Thy arms are already well ladened with sheaves. 
Thy pathway is wet with the tears thou hast wrung 

From eyes that are pleading, all blinded with grief. 

Each day with your sickle, all ready for work, 

We trace your dark form by the shadow you throw 

On the homes that are bright with the radiance of love, 
While leaving behind but a harvest of woe. 

In your greed you have reaped both the good, and the great. 
The heart full of love, and the head crowned with years; 

And the fields where you reap, and the paths where you tread 
Are all dotted with graves, and watered with tears. 

No music 'ere breaks from your cold, icy lips, 
As you come with your soft, muffled tread, 

And noiselessly smite the pure heart that we love, 
And heartlessly leave us alone with our dead. 

Your harvesting surely will end by and by. 

And your sickle must drop from your hand; 

For God has declared, in His Great Book of Life 
That your reign on the earth has an end. 



84 — 



Lengthening Shadows. 



Life's day is almost gone ! 

The sun sinks in the west — 
'Tis long since morning dawned, 
And I need rest. 

Youth's dews have disappeared 
That glistened on the flowers- 

The songs of birds are hushed 
In evening bowers. 

The shadows longer grow — 

lyife's twilight now has come ; 

And some one seems to call — 
I must go home. 

The dews begin to fall — 

The vesper hour is here ; 

And voices I have loved, 
Float on the air. 

My heart joins in their song — 
Song of the pure and blest. 
The going time has come, 
And I will rest. 



85 



My Seventy -fifth Birthday. 



It is life's twilight now ; 

Gently my sun goes down : 

No clouds obscure its light — 
Nor dread of coming night, 

When daylight will be gone. 

Amidst the deep'ning gloom, 
As midnight hours come on, 

Glad days that long since fled 
Come back with silent tread — 
Bright days so quickly flown. 

The night dews on my path 

Are falling as I wait ; 

And as life's day pales out 
Love-voices seem to float 

From the Celestial Gate. 

I hear the muffled oars 
Of boatmen as they come 

To pilot me away ; 

Nor would I longer stay 
From mv Immortal Home. 



— 86 — 



Home Land of the Spirit. 



In the home-land of the spirit, 

Where the blight of want and woe 
Never settles on the soul-life — 

Never checks its ceaseless flow — 
There like diamond fields long hidden, 

Lie exhaustless mines of truth, 
Richer far in precious treasures 

Than the hidden wealth of earth. 

In the homeland of the spirit, 

Where the weary find repose — 
Where the verdure is unfading 

And life's river ever flows — 
There beneath the shaded bowers, 

Kindred spirits meet once more. 
And the crystal waters ever 

Ripple on the radiant shore. 

In the home-land of the .spirit. 

Side by side with those who trod— 
Now in sorrow, then in sunshine. 

O'er life's pathwaj^ up to God — 
We shall some day roam forever 

Through the boundless realms of truth. 
Crowned as victors in life's conflicts 

With the joy of endless youth. 

In the home-land of the spirit, 

Where unending life unfolds; 
'Midst the grandeur and the beauty 

Which no tongue has ever told; 
There no night e'er throws its shadow 

On the sun-lit hills and vales. 
And the brow of spirit beauty 

By the touch of death ne'er pales. 



— «v 



In the home-land of the spirit, 

Now are tenting those we love; 
And they wait to bid us welcome 

To their spirit tents above. 
Sometimes 'midst earth's storms and darkness 

lyight seems bursting through the gloom, 
And the sound of spirit voices 

Seems to hail us from the tomb. 

To the home-land of the spirit 

Fondly turn our weary feet, 
And we're waiting for the morning 

When our loved, and lost, we'll greet. 
From the headlands of the Yonder 

Lights are gleaming from the shore, 
And earth's tempest-tossed and sad ones 

There may anchor evermore. 



Loves Tears. 



There's not a pearl that glistens in the light- 
There 's not a diamond shines so bright 

Nor star that shines as clear — 

As does the eye of love 
When moistened by a tear. 

Love's tears may fall unseen by human eye— 
The heart that loves, unheard, may sigh; 

Yet love shines in the tear 

And echoes in the sigh 
When no one else can hear. 



The Old Man's Dream. 



The Sabbath dawned, and in the chamber 
Of his far off home the old man 
Laid and dreamed — but not the dream of one 
Who sleeps 

The world without was not awake 
And all within his peaceful home was still. 
He opened not his eyes, nor did he seem 
To know the holy day had dawned and 
Filled his room with sunshine. 

He dreamed 
He was a child again and sleeping 'neath 
The roof of his old backwoods home on which 
He heard the falling rain, and listened to 
The dripping eaves, while now and then the sound 
Of distant thunder broke the stillness of 
The night. He saw again the lightnings flash, 
And in his childish fear he closed his eyes 
And drew the pillow o'er his head to blind 
Him to its brightness. 

He heard again the 
Cooing of the mourning dove calling in 
Plaintive notes its absent mate, like one whose 
Saddened heart breathes out its woe alone. 

Then morning came, and in the room below 
He heard the sound of steps, and listening, thought 
Some one had called his name — just as his 
Mother used to, on the farm, to wake him 
From his morning nap. He saw the fire was 
Blazing on the hearth; the kettles hung upon 
The crane. He heard the breakfast call, and saw 
The family each one in their place, all 
Gathered for the Sabbath morning meal. 



— 89-- 



Then, for a moment, all was still while on 
their food, and on them all, his father asked 
God's blessing for the day. Once more the old 
Man joined the cheer and glee that bubble 
Up in childish hearts when peace and plenty 
Bless the humblest home. 

Then came the hour 
Of family prayer — that sacred hour in 
Home life to which the memory fondly clings, 
When from our riper years, though we'ghted with 
Increasing cares, we backward turn the tides 
Of thought, and side by side, we kneel again 
In prayer with loved ones we shall see no more. 
The long used Bible laid upon the stand, 
And with an awe that love inspires he heard 
His father read once more the sacred truths 
By whose unerring light his life had been 
Through all the years ennobled. From out the 
Mist of dreams the old man saw the home group 
Kneel and join in worship; while melting words 
Of love and faith fell on his youthful heart. 

Nothing about the dear old home had changed: 
The morning glory hung above the door, and 
Climbed along the eaves more gracefully 
Than artist's hand could train them; while 
Lilacs waved like purple plumes against the 
Window panes, and wild wood flowers flecked 
Every nook and corner of the yard. The 
Creaking well sweep stood just as it did. 
And on it hung the dripping bucket from 
Whose rim he used to drink, and in whose 
Liquid mirror he could see his rimless 
Hat and freckled face. In the barn yard stood 
The same old stack of straw, round which he 
Often played, and up whose sides he used 



— 90 — 



To climb in quest of uew-laid eggs. Out in 
The fields he saw the skipping lambs, and from 
The distant woods he heard the echo of 
The bells as homeward came the cows at night. 
He strolled once more about the fields and in 
The woods, watching the nimble squirrel 
Leap from limb to limb, and listened to the 
Hum of bees and song of birds, till every 
Tree and bough seemed vocal with their songs. 

The Sabbath came, and all was quiet on the 

Farm. The weary oxen lay and chewed their 

Cud; the horses stood with drooping heads as 

If asleep, and work and play had halted 

For a day of rest. He heard his mother 

Hum an old familiar tune; while father 

Sat beside the little stand on which the 

Open Bible lay, and here and there the 

Boys and girls were strolling in the yard, as 

If the hours were long and cheerless. 

He saw the wagon at the gate; for now the 

Hour for church had come, and every one — this 

Was the family law — from baby on its 

Mother's lap, to the oldest of them all 

Must go, as no excuse would answer. He 

Heard the same old tunes they sang before the 

Choir had been allowed to interrupt the 

Worship of the house of God; or tones of 

Organ brought dismay to pious hearts. He 

Saw the people kneel in prayer, and heard 

Devout " Amens ! " from many hearts. The hymns 

Were sung, the Bible read, and blessings for 

The good and cursings for the bad, fell from 

The preacher's lips in words as solemn as 

The house of death. The service closed, good byes 

Were said, and as the people turned away 

The old man wakened from his dream and wept. 



— 91 



The morning light streamed through the window 
Where he laid. He heard the hum of voices 
In the room below, and birds were singing 
Cheerfully out door, while from his tear-dimmed 
Eyes he looked upon the things, which like 
Himself, were growing old. 

So was the long 
Ago seen through the rifted mists of years — 
The paled and fading pictures of the past 
Regilded by the magic power of dreams. 



Good Bye All. 



Whispered by life's latest breath — 
Whispered from the gate of death — 
Farewell words to love's ear given — 
Echoed from the gates of heaven. 

Good bye to life's toils and cares — 
Good bye to love's coming years — 
Yet Father one last prayer to Thee : 
" Nearer my God — Nearer to thee." 

' ' Good bye all . " The sun goes down — 
Daylight pales ; the day is gone. 
The twilight deepen's into night," 
But, " 'Tis God's way, and all is right." 

Good bye : A nation is in tears. 
Good bye echoes through the years, 
And countless millions will recall 
This sad, " Good bye— Good bye to all.' 



-92 — 



111 the Beginning. 



What wondrous words are these ! What thoughts are 

Wakened in the soul as Faith, and Reason 

Halt to measure their full meaning ! A hush 

Falls on the heart as contemplation dwells 

Upon a theme so grand. God all alone ! 

One moment more — then something is ! And thus 

The Heavens, and Earth began — created 

By Almighty Power. 

Before the march of 
Time as measured by the flight of years — 
Before the lines of space were laid which mark 
The distant stars, and suns, and worlds — back in 
The thick' ning mists of the receding past. 
Creation's work began. 

The pointers on 
The dial-plate of Time have never marked 
The When ; and Science never yet has told 
The How, the worljds that float in trackless seas 
Of space began. The mind sweeps down the tides 
Of thought till lost amidst the depths of the 
Eternal years, and yet around, beneath, 
On high, the suns and stars roll on as if 
Their forms and paths through all the ages past 
Have never changed. 

We search along the tracks 
Of power in nature's vast domain, and note 
With care the marks that Time has left on rocks, 
And hills, and vales, and yet no record can 
Be found on mountain peak, or hidden 'neath 
The rock-girt seas, when earth or stars or suns 
First took their places 'midst the countless worlds. 



93 



Beyond the lines of thought where Reason halts 
Exhausted with the eager search for truth, 
The eyes of Faith descries an All-Sufficient 
Cause — a central Power from which all other 
Powers proceed. 

If Science points us to a 
Time when only atoms filled all space, 
Or world-dust hung like clouds of mist on high, 
Beneath, and everywhere ; then Faith, with depth 
Of thought profounder still, inquires whence came 
The wondrous stuff of which the worlds are 
Made ; and what the Power that molded atoms 
Into countless globes of light. 

From out the 
Book of God there comes a voice that answers 
Back to Reason's call for some efficient 
Cause for all that is: in The Beginning God 
Created systems, suns and worlds, and all 
The Heavens proclaim their Maker's Handiwork. 



— 94 — 

The Everlasting Now. 

Eternity ! Eternity ! 

A hush 
Falls on the soul, and seals the lips of him 
Who speaks this mystic word and waits to catch 
Its awful meaning. 

We stand like watchers 
By the sea when darkness hangs upon the 
Distant shore without a gleam of light ; or 
As one gazing on some far-off mountain 
Range whose peaks are lost amidst the clouds. 
Changeless amidst all change, — it opens 
Up to Reason's searching light a fathomless 
Abyss, down in the depths of which we gaze. 
Till in the awful gloom Imagination's 
Light expires and leaves us but a trackless, 
Starless universe of thought. 

Before the 
Soul — beyond the distant past when years 
Began their ceaseless flight — there lies a vast 
Unbounded sea whose waves break on no shore ; 
Whose ebb and flow are noiseless as the feet 
Of death, yet sweep right on like torrents 
Rushing down from mountain heights and plunging 
Into depths and gorges so profound that 
Not one echo ever falls upon the ear. 
Eternity ! It is, but is without 
Beginning. It has no years, as we count 
Years ; for, multiply them as we may, till 
Centuries are more than all the stars 
And all the sands of oceans, seas, and lakes, we 
Have not added to its age. And if we 
Could erase them all, it would remain 



— 95 



Without one moment less. Each tick of 
Time's great clock, as age has followed age till 
Eons rolled away, is but the record 
Of a moment's birth and death. 

Thought wearies 
In attempts to grasp the awful meaning : 
As one may look out into space till stars 
Seem sinking into depths profounder than 
The lines of thought — so may the soul dwell on 
This wondrous theme till lost amidst its 
Noiseless solitudes. 

Eternity ! Its 
Shadow floats before us shapeless as the 
Fragments of a dream ; it stretches out as 
Measureless as space, yet seems to end with 
Every moment that expires. It ever 
Answers Reason's call, but is itself as 
Voiceless as the tomb of ages. 

It is the 
Presence of One Everlasting Now. 



"96 



A Living Soul. 



A form of life that feels within itself 
The consciousness of a Divine Beginning — 
A selfhood that survives all change amidst 
The vi^aste and wear of ceaseless changes in 
The universe of things; yet feeling in 
Itself the pulse beats of unending life. 

We stand amidst the shades of doubt and fear 
Of death, and think upon a destiny 
So grand — like one who gazes on some 
Distant mountain peak whose summit rises 
Through the mists and clouds, and glows as if on 
Fire with noonday light. 

About us are the 
Changing forms of life weighed down with years, 
Returning to their native dust, to be 
Transformed and reappear in bud or 
Flower, or other forms of life. But in 
Ourselves we feel the motions of a life 
Unchanged, amidst all change. 

Not something 
That exists ; that simply is ; but something 
Conscious that is, and in its very 
Instincts reads, as in prophetic light, the 
Destiny of every living soul. 

To 
Live, as we count life, is more than simply 
To exist ; for atoms, worlds, and suns exist, 
But conscious selfhood never thrilled their 
Lifeless forms. Soul life is more than matter 
Shaped by Nature's skillful hand in beauty's 
Mould ; for by its power the empires of 
The world are ruled, and nations rise and fall. 



— 97 



If atoms never cease to be, but only 
Change from age to age, and reappear in 
Other forms — may not a living soul, a 
Thinking, conscious selfhood, have an endless 
Mode of being, whose unfolding powers sweep 
Onward through the eternal years of God ? 



The Midnight Burial. 



They made his grave in the silence of night, 
And laid him to rest by the moon's pale light. 
Not a voice was heard — not a word of prayer 
Floated out on the quiet, midnight air. 

Gently they lowered him down to his rest — 
In silence they smoothed the sod o'er his breast ; 
Then softly they whispered love's good-bye 
O'er the new made grave beneath the night-sky. 

But He who noteth the sparrow's fall 
Can answer at midnight love's whispered call ; 
And Faith 'midst the gloom and tears can descry 
' ' The home of the soul in the sweet bye and bye. ' ' 



— 98 — 



In Potter's Field. 



With feebleness she walked, 

Oft halting by the way. 
Her eyes were dim with years — 

Her locks were streaked with gray. 

Within her wrinkled hand 

She held one single flower; 
And often turned her tearful eyes 
Upward, like one in prayer. 

She found a new-made grave 

By which she slowly kneeled ; 

Then on it laid the little flower — 
That grave in potter's field. 

She rose and looked about 

On costly shaft and spire ; 

But none were grander in God' s sight 
Than was that widow's flower. 

It was a simple gift ; 

But He who rules above 
Recorded in His Book of life 

That offering of love. 

In many unmarked graves 

God's great dead sweetly sleep ; 
And o'er them loyal hearts, in love, 

Their ceaseless vigils keep. 

There is one priceless gift — 

A gift all else above 
More precious than is Ophir's gold — 

A pure heart's gift of love. 



99 — 



At My Brother's Grave. 



I sit alone beside my loved and dead, 
And dream of heaven. The Sabbath sun breaks 
Through the overhanging boughs, swayed 
By the breeze that fans my cheek, all freighted 
With the odors of sweet flowers that hands 
Of love have brought, baptised with tears, and 
Strewed above the pulseless hearts of those 
They've left alone to sleep away the years. 

I stand like one alone upon the shore 
That bounds the land where weary feet are halted 
By the chill of death's cold waters, and just 
Beyond, and through the thickening mist, breaks 
Forth the morning of an endless life. 

No ! 
No ! it cannot be that he above whose 
Sightless eyes I've laid a pure, white rose, as 
If to see them flash again by beauty's 
Matchless touch, is dead ! 

I feel the power 
Of his great soul, and though his lips are mute, 
And answer not my muffled call as once 
Again I speak his name, yet still I feel 
He is alive ; and in the years not far 
Away, we'll roam again the fields of thought, 
Where pain can never waste the frame, and death 
Will never pale the brow, nor ever halt 
Us in our search along the paths of truth. 

iU.ofC. 



— 100 — 



Our Dead Heroes. 



Here at the graves of our heroic dead 
We stand again, to tell the story of 
Their daring deeds, and strew fresh flowers 
Upon their pulseless breasts. 

"Above these low 
Green tents," where now in dreamless sleep our gallant 
Comrades lie, the hands of love have placed 
The Nation's flag for which our valiant 
Brothers fought, and ' neath whose shadows now 
They rest in undisturbed repose. Once more 
The noise of war has woke our dream of peace ; 
And squadrons of the true and brave, beneath 
The same old flag for which these fought and fell, 
Are marching to the peal of fife, and roll 
Of drum, to meet a foreign foe ; but roll 
Of drum, nor cannon's voice, nor bugle blast. 
Can break the sleep of our heroic dead. 

Some 
Rest to-day beneath the Southland's sunny 
Skies, far from the scenes of home and love, where 
Comrade, mother, wife nor friend, may ever 
Plant a rose, or strew a flower ; and on 
Whose graves the shadow of the dear old flag 
For which they died, may never fall ; but in 
The Nation's Book of Life, their names and deeds 
Shall ever stand among the world's great dead. 

In unmarked graves uncounted numbers lie, 
Of freedom's bravest sons ; and we shall never 
Know the sacred spot where in the awful 
Strife they fell ; but in each loyal heart, their 
Deeds of valor live forevermore. 



101 — 



What mem'ries throng the heart and stir the soul in 
Such an hour as this ! The far away comes 
Back, all freighted with its tears and love's long 
Sad good byes — with desolated homes from 
Which brave men and noble sons went forth to 
Come not back in all the years. 

We seem to 
Hear once more the clash of arms, and see the 
" Burnished rows of steel," while all about us, 
Gashed with wounds and dying on the field 
Of strife, our comrades lie, without a word 
Of cheer or kiss of love to light them to 
The night of death. 

Heroes were they all ; for 
He who braves the shafts of death, at duty's call, 
And leaves behind him home and all the ties 
That sanctify the love of human hearts 
To save the honor of his country's flag, 
Deserves a nation's ceaseless praise. 

But while 
We bring our wreaths and flowers to crown our 
Heroes dead, we may not close our eyes and 
Hearts to others brave as those who never 
Joined the weary march nor faced the 
Hostile foe, and yet who wept but murmured 
Not when care and want and grief fell on the 
I^yal heart of mother, wife and lover. 
All over this broad land, from shore to shore, 
On mountain, hill and vale — are countless homes 
Still draped in woe, and hearts beat heavy 
With the weight of an undying grief because 
The husband, father, son, will never come. 
If it meant much that men should say good-bye 
To home, and go at duty's call to danger 



— 102 



And to death, did it mean less that those 
Who love with woman's fervent heart, should bid 
Them go and die, if freedom's holy cause 
Required a sacrifice so great ? 

Not on 
The battlefields alone, nor in our veteran 
Ranks, nor yet in soldiers' graves, are all the 
Nation's heroes ; for in the homes made dark 
And desolate by war, are hearts as brave 
And true, as ever fought in freedom's cause. 
These graves, marked by the presence of our 
Country's flag, where rest our soldier-dead, are 
Freedom's holy shrines to which we bring the 
Incense of a nation's quenchless love, and 
O'er whose sleeping dust we chant the anthems 
Of a land made free by their heroic deeds. 

The thinning ranks of those who yet survive — 
Who bravely stood 'midst shot and shell, and yet 
Are with us still — who come with halting steps 
And bending forms, with battle scars and eyes 
Grown dim with years, to honor those whose toil and 
Danger once they shared, remind us of the 
Home not far away, when other hands will 
Strew fresh flowers upon their lowly tents. 
But time cannot erase the noble deeds 
And honored names of our heroic dead. 
Transcribed on scrolls of fame, and graven 
On the loyal hearts of freemen's gallant 
Sons, in patriotic blood. 

The waste of 
Years and storms of time may change our columns 
Into dust ; and granite piled above our 
Honored dead may crumble back to earth ; but 
An immortal fame belongs to all who dare 
To die to make men free. 



— lOJ 



But while we come 
To-day with wreaths and flowers to crown our 
Soldier dead, again the noise of battle 
Echoes o'er the hills and plains, and breaks our 
Fondly cherished dreams of peace ; while war clouds 
Hang like vengeful spirits over all our 
Land, Most fondly had we hoped, and from our 
Hearts most fervently have prayed, that as the 
Years may come, the stains of blood might bleach 
From all our battle fields and nevermore 
The wail of woe might break the smile of peace, 
That rested like a gentle spirit on 
Our hills, and hung like an auroral blush 
On every mountain peak. 

But once again 
The war drum beats to arms ; and thousands of 
Our gallant boys, born since rebellion struck 
Its flag and yielded up its sword to our 
Victorious hosts, have answered duty's 
Call, and gone to swell the ranks and share the 
Danger, and the glory, too, of freemen's 
Conquering ranks. From homes of wealth and marts 
Of trade — from plow and forge — from schools and banks- 
They hasten at their country's call, to do 
And dare, and die as did the heroes by 
Whose graves we stand when treason lifted up 
Its bloody hands to tear our grand old flag 
From freedom's dome. 

While now we strew our flowers 
Upon these honored graves, our anxious hearts 
And tear-filled eyes will turn to our heroic 
Boys on whose warm lips the kiss of love has 
Hardly dried ; and visions of their low white 
Tents — the hurried march — the awful clash of arms, 
And death's dark cloud suspended over all 



— 104 — 



The scene, will fill onr souls ; and we will watch 
Each lightning flash from land and sea, to catch 
The tidings of our loved and gone. 

If these 
Shall not return, but fall amidst the strife ; 
Are left to sleep away the years beneath 
Our Southland's sunny skies in unmarked 
Graves ; here in the presence of our living 
Comrades and our soldier dead — beneath our 
Grand old Flag, unsullied by defeat and 
Honored everywhere on Freedom's altar; 
Here to-day, we swear to keep their mem'ries 
Green, and honor their heroic deeds as 
Now we honor those who lie about us. 



The Twilight Bell. 



As I sit in the twilight alone 

There falls on my ear 

In tones low and clear, 
The sound of a distant church bell. 

'Tis the good bye of day 

Stealing softly away — 
Slowly ringing its evening farewell. 

When I think of that slow ringing bell- 

Of its cold, iron tongue; 

How oft it has rung 
When the last of life's daylight is gone: 

Then I dream of a day 

When no more I will say, 
I sit in the twilight, alone. 



— 105 — 



The Parted Ways. 



This poem was written upon the first anniversary of the burial 
of my wife while sitting at her grave. * * * 



Twelve months have passed as noiseless as the 
Floating clouds, since standing side by side 
Upon the fiowerless shore of death's dark flood, 
We breathed our last good bye. 

Like one who 
Stands upon the beach and notes the rising 
Tide, and listens to the murmurs of the 
Waves whose echo sounds like muffled sighs of 
Grief ; so did I note the rising tide of 
Death as paleness stole upon her cheek and 
Chilled her brow, and when the last faint pulse 
Beat came, I stood like one tossed by the 
Storm upon a pathless, starless shore, alone. 

Midst flowers and tears we bore her from the 
Home once cheerful by her smiles and love, and 
Laid her down to rest beneath the fading 
Flowers and changing autumn leaves, then 
Turned away to meet the coming winter 
Days like one along whose path the frosts have 
Withered every bud and flower. 

Here she has 
Sweetly slept away the year within her 
Low green tent, and I am looking out of 
Tear-dimmed eyes upon the clouds that hang 
Above my path and waiting for the hour 
When once again our parted ways will blend 
To be divided never — nevermore. 



— 106 



Rest, Brother. 



Rest, brother, rest. 
The throbs of pain are past — 
The rest hour came at last. 
And on your pale, cold brow 
The dews of death lie now. 

Sleep, brother, sleep. 

Rest, brother, rest. 
Love watched the swelling tide 
That bore you from our side; 
Nor love nor skill had power 
To stay death's gloomy hour. 

Sleep, brother, sleep. 

Rest, brother, rest. 
We laid you down with tears 
To sleep away the years; 
And with love's tender sigh 
We breathed our last good bye. 

Sleep, brother, sleep. 

Rest, brother, rest. 
The wasting hours of pain 
Can ne'er return again; 
And now the tired hands rest 
Upon your pulseless breast. 

Sleep, brother, sleep. 



— 107 — 



Crucified Innocence. 



The Nazarene stands charged with crime at 
Pilate's Bar : 

A traitor's kiss is on his 
Cheek — his hands are bound, and muttered words of 
Hate fall on his ear. He hears the taunts of 
Mocking priests ; but conscious of no wrong, he 
Waits the presence of the Judge, calmly as 
One who in the house of God waits for the 
Benediction. 

Men are not pure because 
The world applauds ; nor are they guilty in 
The sight of God because we cry, " Let him 
Be crucified ! ' ' though they who mock may call 
Themselves the priests of God. The hope of gain 
May bribe a sordid soul with less than 
Thirty pieces to betray the pure, and 
Jealousy prefer Barabbas rather 
Than the Christ ; but innocence in chains is 
Better than applauded wrong, for crime cannot 
Be sanctified by praise from priestly lips. 

Justice with her searching eye, from which the 
Guilty ever shrink, steals in beside the 
Judge ; and, holding in her hands her even 
Scales, now bends her ear to catch each word that 
She may weigh the verdict that will seal the 

Prisoner's doom. 

" What is the crime with which you charge 
This man ? " inquires the Court. 

" He calls himself 
A King," the priests reply. " He says our forms 



— 108 



Of worship are not service paid to God ; 
That washing hands and paying tithes to us 
Do not fulfil the L,aw ; and thus our creed 
And calling are dishonored." 

" He is a 
Malefactor ! ' ' cries the mob. 

(There is no 
Sting in all the realms of pain more fatal 
Than the tongue when charged with envy and 
Deceit ; and prejudice and hate are but 
Other names for death, which like an asp, 
Secreted 'midst the flowers, will strike its 
Unsuspecting victim with its deadly fangs. ) 

' ' Art thou a King ? ' ' Pilate now inquires — as 
If he felt a fear lest Csesar be dethroned 
And he will lose his place and power. 

" My Kingdom is the world of Truth," the Christ 
Replies ; " to this end was I born ; for this 
Cause have I come ; and all who love the truth 
Will follow me." 

Pilate answers, ' ' What is Truth ? " 

All eyes are fastened on the Nazarene. 

" Not guilty ' ' is the verdict of the Court. 
" I find in him no fault at all. lyoose him, 
And let him go." 

' ' Thou art not Caesar' s friend ! ' ' 
Rings through the hall, "if this pretender, this 
Defamer of religion, is released ; 
For he who makes himself a King is not 
The friend of Csesar ! ' ' 



109 



In vain he pleads : 
" I find in him no fault ; what evil hath he done? " 
But fear of shame and dread of priestly 
Scorn weigh more with Pilate in the scale that 
Justice holds than does the innocence of 
This pure man. 

Pilates have often sat in 
Judgment halls where purity and truth 
Were jeered and scorned by godless mobs 
And jealous priests in every age ; but now, 
As then, when zeal for creed and lifeless forms 
Is more than love of right and greater than 
The love of God — when to the cry of want 
And woe it shuts the ear, and wounded hearts 
About us plead in vain for help : then come 
Accusing priests with crowns of thorns, then 
Calvary, and then — a cross. 

Barabbas is 
Released and greeted with applause while yet 
His hands are red with blood ; and Jesus — to 
Appease the mob, and win the favor of 
A priesthood jealous for decaying power — 
A victim of religious hate, is doomed 
To torture and a death of shame. 

The paths 
Of Truth in every age have led men to 
Gethsemane — to mocking, and a cross. 
Its sacred light has rent the veil behind 
Which error long has been concealed, and, though 
The priests of wrong have raged and sought to bind 
With thongs the souls of men — right on the tides 
Of Truth have swept ; nor mobs, nor hate, nor yet 
The Cross can stay the Morning of its Triumph. 



110 — 



Light and Shade. 



There's a morning that follows each night; 
And sunshine that follows each storm; 

There are smiles after tears — 

There are joys after fears, 
And hopes that dispel our alarms. 

Each midnight is followed by noon — 
Each tempest succeeded by calm. 

Though the wild winds may roar, 
And waves dash on the shore. 
They may hurry the mariner home. 

Winter locks the great storehouse of life, 
And storms their sad dirges may sing; 
But new life forms will come, 
And new flowers will bloom, 
Waked to life by the sunshine of Spring. 

Our paths may be shrouded by clouds — 
No stars may shine out on our night, 

But beyond the gray skies, 

Faith sees a sunrise 
That shall glow with unquenchable light. 



Ill — 



Take Him Down from the Cross. 



Take Him down from the Cross 
Death's work is now done. 
I^oose the nails from His hands — 
From His head take the crown. 

Close the wound in His side — 
Loose the thongs from His feet — 
Wrap The Crucified One 

In love's winding sheet. 

The sun is now setting, 

The night will soon come — 
Bear the Christ from the Cross 
To His rest in the tomb, 

Where the malice of men 

And the hatred of foes 
Can torture no longer 

Nor break His repose. 

Close the door where he sleeps — 
Let no footfall be heard 
In the chamber of death 
Nor love's soft, whispered word. 
There are watchers unseen 
Keeping guard at the door — 
Let Him rest till the morning 
Then w^ake evermore. 

On the door of the tomb 
Is the King's greal seal. 

Save the tramp of the watch 

The garden is still. 

And the sleeper sleeps on 
While the hours steal away 

That shall give to the world 
Its first Easter Day. 



112 — 



Earth's New Day. 



Far away o'er the gray hills of Years 
IvO, a star at earth's midnight appears. 

Its brightness bursts forth as the sun — 
A new day for the world has begun. 

The Shilo, the Peace Prince, is here — 
His triumph shall be evermore! 

O'er the sleep- locked homes of the world 
His banner of peace is unfurled. 

There is music floats out on the air — 
Peace songs from the heavenly choir. 

It echoes o'er Bethlehem's hills 
I^ike the chimes of far away bells. 

Once more will the millions of earth 
Rejoice in His wonderful birth. 

Though ages have since passed away, 
The Christ-Child is with us to-day. 

For Him wealth will open its door 
And His presence will gladden the poor. 

O Peace Prince the world prays to-day 
That its war clouds may soon pass away! 

With gloom they still darken the sky. 
And the tempests are still passing by. 

Thy aid, Conquering Christ, we implore, 
That earth's battles may cease evermore ! 



113 — 



O Death! 



This poem was written upon hearing of the sudden death of a 
lamented friend. 



O Death! 
Thick and fast your arrows fly 
Heedless of the mourner's sigh — 
Heedless of the tearful eye ; 
Never bending low your ear — 
Never touched by love's warm tear — 
Never moved by pleader's prayer. 

O Death! 
Hear you not the wail of woe 
When beneath your withering blow 
Strength and beauty are laid low ? 
Feel you not the awful gloom 
When with muffled steps you come 
Crushing hearts, and blighting home ? 

O Death ! 
Often at lyove's hour of noon, 
When its sun has brightest shone — 
lyong before its going down, 
You have turned the day to night — 
Smitten fondest hopes with blight — 
Dimming every ray of light. 

O Death! 
There will come a golden day 
" When beneath Messiah's sway " 
Your long reign will pass away. 
Tear-dimmed eyes with joy will glow- 
Ceaselessly Life's tides will flow 
As the Ages come and go. 



114 — 



Then and Now. 



On the shore of Lake Cayuga 

Where the Red Man used to roam ; 

There amidst its scenes of beauty 
Was my early childhood home. 

I can see the dear old cottage 

Where my eyes first saw the light- 
See it like a far off picture — 

Fadeless picture — ever bright. 

Old Cayuga, queen of lakelets, 
I can hear your muffled roar 

As I heard it in my childhood 

When I strolled upon your shore. 

In my dreams I hear your music 
Stealing on the twilight air 

Soft and sweet as songs of worship 
At the hour of evening prayer. 

On your banks I gathered flowers — 
Sat upon your beach, alone ; 

Watched the ripple on the water ; 
lyistened to its undertone. 

Once again I see that picture — 

Stroll once more upon the strand — 

Picture which no art can equal — 

Picture sketched by Beauty's hand. 

But there came a day of parting ; 

And as birdlings leave their nests, 
So I left the dear home cottage 

For the wild and far olf west. 



— 115 



It was a quiet Autumn night. The moon 
Rose at her best, and from a cloudless sky 
Threw down a silvery sheen on forests 
Stretching far away till distance blended 
Sky and woodland in one common sheet of haze. 
A hush — as if the world had gone to sleep — 
Was everywhere, and loneness brooded 
Over every tree and bough. 

Here in a 
Little open nook, standing so near the 
Dismal looking woods that we could hear the 
Murmur of the night winds in the boughs like 
Muffled whispers tossed from tree to tree. 
We found our cabin home : A clapboard roof — 
A single window where the moon peeped in 
And threw a sickly smile upon a 
Puncheon floor — a door whose wooden hinges 
Gave a screech as if in pain whenever 
It was opened — fire-place extending half 
Aross the room — a chimney built of sticks 
And lined with mortar made of clay — this was 
The spot, and this the house selected for 
Our future home. A meal invented by 
A mother's skill from odds and ends of an 
Exhausted larder, and served on chairs and 
Boxes scattered round the room, with fun and 
Frolic for dessert — this was our first night's 
Supper in the woods. 

Then came the hour for 
Sleep, and here again a mother's loving 
Care was equal to the problem: beds on 
The floor upstairs and down — chairs and boxes 
Changed from tables into beds— children tucked 
In corners out of sight, and soon the dew 
Of sleep fell on the new-found home : for some 



— 116 — 



A restful sleep ; for some a fitful dream 
Of the deserted home now far away. 
But morning came as bright as if the sun 
Had never shone on lonely hearts, nor earth 
Had ever seen a tear or heard a sigh. 

These were the days of pioneers, when hope 
Threw on the night of care a bow of light 
And courage nerved the arm to do and dare. 
Faith saw concealed within the virgin soil 
Potential wealth, and as the woodman's axe 
Rang through the forest aisles the hardy sons 
Of toil heard, as the echo died away 
The prelude of the harvest hymns that grateful 
Hearts would sing in coming days. 

If we had 
Left the music of Cayuga's wave- washed 
Shore ; here in the forest we had gained 
The sweep and roar of winds and storms that 
Echoed through the woods like bursts of thunder 
Far away. If on the lakelet's verdant 
Shore I could no longer sit beneath the 
Pine trees shade and watch the dimpled waves, here 
Could I stroll where once the Red Man had his 
Trail, while wild flowers stood in beauty all 
Along my path and tossed their perfume 
On the air as if to win my thoughts from 
My Cayuga home. 

The pictures Beauty 
Painted on my heart when but a child 
Flash out before me in my autumn days 
For then, and now, are but the poles of one 
Continued life which through the waste of 
Years has only changed in its unfoldment. 



— 117 — 



Amidst life's ebb and flow 

The years that come and go 

Are but as waves, whose muflBed roar 

Remind us of the distant shore. 
^K * * * * 

Soon all was changed : The forest yielded to 

The woodman's axe — the fertile, wild lands 

Hitherto unstirred by plow or hoe, were 

Wakened from their long repose and answered 

To the hands of toil, while plenty now began 

To smile where want had cast its dismal frown. 

The hands of love and skill transformed the 

Cabin in the woods into a cozy home 

Where gladness reigned within, and beauty 

Reigned without. The woodbine climbed the 

Rustic sides and well concealed the chinks and 

Cracks — the honeysuckle trailed along 

The clapboards eaves and hung in graceful loops 

Above the door ; while pinks and roses tossed 

Their fragrance on the air like odors from 

The " Garden of the gods." The wild flowers 

Flecked the fields and bloomed and blushed 

In every nook, and lined the banks of 

Every creek and rill, as if to cheer and 

Rest the toiling pioneer. 

Had Beauty 
Missed me from the scenes where first I felt her 
Thrilling touch; and had she sought me in the 
Wild woods of the West ? I thought I heard 
Her voice, as when in childhood's merry days 
She met me on Cayuga's shore, and threw 
Upon my soul a fadeless picture. I 
Heard the same sweet voice when in 
My waking hours I listened to the night winds plaintive 
Tones that echoed in the forest boughs — as 
Once I heard it midst the pines upon the 



118 



Lakelet's shore. Once more she seemed to take 

My hand and lead me, as alone I strolled 

Amidst the maple groves and sat beside 

Me as I lay upon the autumn leaves 

And listened to the wild bird's song, and 

Watched the nimble squirrel as he leapt 

From bough to bough. Did not her skillful hand 

Paint the new landscape on my soul, and throw 

These crimson tints upon the evening skj^, 

As I had seen them in the twilight at 

My home so far away; yet knew not then 

She ever clothed herself with clouds, or 

Hid herself in mists? And was it not her 

Hand that shook the leaves from off the boughs when 

Chilled and blighted by the frosts ; and spread 

Them as a winding sheet upon the 

Dying flowers ? 

Does not the hand of Beauty 

Paint the rose? 
Does she not sparkle in the streamlet 

Where it flows? 
Does she not gild the hilltops 

With the light, 
And throw Aurora's blushes 

On the night ? 

But child-life changes with 
The years, and sunny days and pleasant paths 
Lead to the gates of duty ; but pleasure ends 
Not where the real work of life begins: 
Its broader, grander fields of thought ; its hope 
And faith, gild all the coming years with light. 
The discipline of toil can stimulate 
And help unfold the unused powers of 
Mind, and thus disclose the mission of the 



— 119 — 



Life for all its future. Each day, amidst 
The toil of field and farm — to him who thinks 
The buds and flowers; the rills and rocks, make 
Their mute appeal, and are the classics in 
The college course of life. To him who 
Has an ear to hear, come voices from the 
Very dust on which he treads : He plants and 
Sows, and waits; and soon a latent power 
Begins to throb and thrill in every blade 
And bud, and throw the tides of life from root 
To bough, till all about him seems to be 
A ceaseless, vital force. 

On such a scene 
The backwoods boy looked out, and like a 
Changing view when one ascends from valleys 
To the hills — so wider fields and grander 
Views of life stretched out before him. 
Nature's volume — always open to the 
Eyes of those who seek its varied truths — 
Became his daily book, in which, though want 
And work demanded time and care, he found 
Concealed truths grander than the pen or press 
Have ever yet revealed, Beauty's matchless hand 
Had illustrated every page, and wakened 
In his soul the most intense delight ; for 
Back of every perfect form of things, or 
Perfect form of life, he saw the presence 
Of a mind. Here in the great outdoor of 
God he found his college halls, and watched 
The looms of Nature's silent powers weave 
From the dust her wondrous forms of life, each 
In itself complete. As yet he had not 
Learned the meaning of the truths inscribed 
On Nature's changing pages ; nor did he 
Always understand the Voices calling 



— 120 



From the woodland shades; from swelling buds and 
From the night winds, in his waking hours, and 
Yet amidst his toil he often paused as if 
Some one had called his name. 

Often in the hush of evening 

'Neath the night sky, all alone, 

Duty's voice — like some one calling- 
Calling him in undertone — 

Bade him bear his Master's cross, 

For Him counting all things loss. 

Manhood's morning 
Now had dawned, and looking outward through 
Life's open gate he saw well beaten paths 
Oe'r which, before him, men of great renown 
Had passed to wealth and honor. Once more 
He paused, as if in doubt, and stood as one 
Where two ways meet, and fears to choose, but at 
The last the choice he makes proves but a path 
To blighted expectations. 

There is no 
Anguish more intense than that which stings the 
Heart, when, blinded by the love of self, we 
Turn from duty's paths to find at last but 
Skeletons of blighted hopes. Ambition 
Kindles up its fires, and men look out on 
Laurels to be won, and honors to be 
Gained, and in the greed for place and power 
They hush the voice of conscience in the soul 
And close the ear to duty's call. God does 
Not always speak from out the smoke of burning 
Mounts; nor yet from burning bush; but often 
In a still, small voice. He says: " He that loveth 
Wealth, or friends, or life, more than he loveth 
Me, he cannot follow me." This was the 



— 121 — 

Voice that thrilled his soul as thus he stood, 
And looked through life's wide, open gate, and 
On the coming years. 

As once the kingdoms 
Of the world flashed out before his Lord, and 
Earthly glory offered Him its crown if 
He would worship a Deceiver — so now 
Was thrown upon the canvas of the coming 
Years the glint of wealth, and honor's sunlit 
Heights, to woo and win his heart. Beside him 
Duty stood with steady eye and face 
Serene as morning when its light falls on 
The hills. She bent her ear to catch the first 
Faint whisper of his choice; to make the 
Record of his vow; for in that vow there 
Was concealed a harvest of results that 
In the reaping time might crown his life with 
Good, or blight his years with sorrow and defeat. 

While thus he listened to the Voice and shrank 

From duty's rugged way, the memories of 

The past, like waves tossed back from distant 

Shores rolled in upon his heart, as if to 

Turn his thoughts away from cherished hopes, and 

Dreams of coming fame, should he obey the call. 

All life, sometimes, seem crowded in an hour; 

And all the past, and all our future may 

Contain, are blended in one act of will. 

An Unseen Hand, with even poise, holds up 

The scales on which life's choices must be weighed, 

And which, when tested by their real worth. 

Decide our future destiny. Enough — 

His choice is made. 

Decision's golden day 
Broke through the clouds of doubt, and fear that long 
Had hung above the path where duty bade 



122 — 



Him go. Peace settles on the heart like dew 
Upon the withered buds when shrunken by 
The drouth, when Will and Conscience answer to 
The voice of God. 

Henceforth the work of life 
Took on a brighter hue; and faith and hope 
Threw lustre on his path on which the night 
Of doubt had cast a gloom. One purpose took 
Possession of his heart; one object held 
His steady gaze; that purpose the honor 
Of his Lord. 

We need not trace the pathway 
Of the years in which he sowed and reaped — 
Sometimes in joy, sometimes in grief and tears — 
For He who sent him forth has kept the record 
Well; and when the day shall come that tests the 
Merit of our deeds and virtues of our hearts, 
Nor human praise nor blame, can change the 
Verdict of the Judge to whom the secrets 
Of all lives are known. 

From out the evening 
Shades far from his old Cayuga home, 
With eyes dimmed by the years, serenely 
As the Autumn sun goes down, the harvester 
Looks backward on the paths where duty led. 
And ever and anon turns wistful eyes 
Acrost the valley through whose gloom he soon 
Must pass, and on whose farther shore Faith sees 
The waiting souls he pointed to the cross. 

" Bane and blessing, pain and pleasure 
Sy the cross are sanctified." 



— 123 



Some One is Calling:. 



I thought I heard a voice, 
And bent my ear, and listened: 

Like love's soft note 

It seemed to float 
Upon the morning air— 
From out an opening flower 
On which a dew drop glistened. 

Its petals seemed like lips 
Which to my heart had spoken 

In undertone. 

As all alone, 
Like one entranced I stood 
Watching the opening bud, 
Which seemed like love's pure token. 

I stooped and kissed the flower, 
My warm tears on it falling. 

I wept alone. 

For one was gone. 
But just beyond the river 
Love' s flowers bloom forever, 
And — hark ! Some one is calling. 



— 124 — 
The Uncaused Cause. 



" I am Alpha and Omega." 

As one who stands within the shadow of 
Some mountain peak forever draped with clouds, 
Till lost in thought amid its silent grandeur; 
So reason stands within the mist of 
Uncreated Cause, lost in the thought of 
Self-Kxistent Being. 

Above the power of 
Finite minds to comprehend; profounder 
Than Imagination's depths; its presence 
Fills the soul with awe, as sunlight fills the 
Crystal with its golden rays. 

When Reason 
Halts, — exhausted with its eager search to 
Find the hidings of Creative Power, — Faith 
Stands serene amidst the gloom of doubt; for 
Through the mists that long have hung upon the 
Fields of thought, it sees an Infinite Creator. 
The world has turned its searchlights on the suns 
And stars, and men have analyzed the dust, 
And listened for the first faint pulse of life; 
But suns and stars are silent as 
The lips of Death. Too far away for 
Telescopes to sweep, containing forms of 
Ivife too small for microscopic eyes to find, 
Are regions of Creative Power yet lying 
Unexplored, in waiting for some coming 
Age, when pioneers of thought shall pass their 
Mystic bounds, and open to the world new 
Continents of truth. 

An Unseen Cause has 
Launched the planets on the shoreless seas of 
Space, to roll in unchanged orbits evermore; 



— 125 — 



And noiseless as Aurora throws its tints 
Upon the evening sky, they sweep along 
Their unmarked ways. 

Around, above, beneath, 
Far as the lines of thought can reach, where suns 
Pale out, lost in the depths of space, all that 
The eye can reach or science can disclose, 
Bears on its form, or in its life, the impress 
Of a mind that planned the universe of 
Things in which each atom fills its place, and 
Shaped each form of life, from tiny monad 
Up the graded heights of vital force to man. 
Out from the distant past an echo of 
Creation's hymn, sung by the Morning Stars 
And chanted by the Spheres, floats through the aisles 
Of Time from Nature's grand Cathedral: 
" Before the mountains were brought forth, before 
The earth and worlds were made, from everlasting 
To eternal ages. Thou alone art God." 



Ego Sum. 



If nothing else I know, 

I know I am. 
If nothing else is true, 

I know I am. 

If all things else I doubt, 

I know I am. 
If all else I forget, 

I know I am. 

What else I may deny; 

I know I am. 
I cannot this gainsay, 

I know I am. 



— 126 — 



The First Bobin. 



Back from your south-land home 

So soon ? 
And yet it seems so long 
Since I last heard your song, 
That almost I'd forgot 

Your cheerful tune. 

Have you come back to stay 

With me ? 
I love your clean red breast : 
And I will guard your nest 
From every wayward boy 

That I may see. 

The little nest you built 

Last year 
Is on the maple bough 
All ready for you now, 
But, by the storm and cold, 

L,ike me, it's old. 

You used to sing a soft 

Sweet lay 
At twilight's holy hour, 
Which floated from your bower 
Sweet as an evening prayer 

At close of day. 

Please sing that dear old song 

Each night, 
Just as you used to sing 
When your full notes would ring 
And rapture seemed to spring 

From out your heart. 



— 127 — 



You're welcomed home again 

Sweet bird ; 
For long have been the days 
Since in your evening praise, 
And cheerful morning lays, 

Your voice I heard. 



Whispered Greetings. 



I am sitting in the shadow — 

Restful shadow 

Of the maple bough ; 
lyistening to the wind's soft music — 

Plaintive music, 

Whispering low. 

Hush ! There comes a spirit message- 
Loving message 
For me alone ; 

And I bend to catch its echo- 
Sweetest echo 
In Ivove's undertone. 

From the world unseen, it calls me — 

Gently calls me 

To the life above ; 
Where my loved ones wait to meet me- 

Wait to greet me 

In their home of love. 



— 128 



Power to Become. 



It is hidden in the atoms 
Floating in the sea of space — 
It is chiseled on each crystal 
In its secret hiding place — 
It is wrapped in every seed form 
Waiting for the sunbeams call — 
It is sparkhng in each dew drop, 
And the snowflakes as they fall. 

It has opened every flower bud 
That has flecked the fields in spring- 
It has taught the woodland songsters 
Every note of joy they sing. 
It is hidden in each life cell, 
Shaping every tiny form — 
Whispers in the softest Zephyrs — 
Holds the reins in every storm. 

It directs the comet's passage — 
Holds the balance of the stars — 
Sweeps the Keys of Nature's Organ- 
Wakes the music of the spheres. 

Soul life, too, has its becoming, 
An unfoldment, hour by hour — 
L,atent powers which have no ending- 
Powers expanding evermore. 



— 129 



Tli€^ Old and the New Century. 



The blush of early morning glows upon 
The brow of the New Century. 

It dawned 
Upon the world as noiselessly as stars 
Flash out at night, and stilly took its place 
In the long line of Uncounted Ages. 
The same old sun that lighted up the 
Pathway of the century now gone, and 
Threw its mellow light upon its closing 
Hours, still shines upon the New, and sheds its 
Golden beams along the track of coming years. 

As love dies not when years have changed the 
Bloom of youth to wrinkled brow and dimming 
Eyes — so will we not forget the golden 
Days of treasured good the world has reaped from 
Its abundant harvest. 

lyike one who stands 
Upon the ocean's shore watching the 
Outflow of the tide that bears awaj^ our 
Loved, till distance drops the curtain on the 
Scene, and leaves us but the vastness of the 
Sea— so faded from the world the shore lights 
Of the century, till not one lingering 
Hour of all its hundred years remained. 

As comets dash along their unmarked way 
Amidst the stars till lost in depths of space. 
Throw back a trail of light to mark their passage 
Through the sky — so can we trace upon the 
Map of Years, by its achievements unsurpassed 
In all the ages gone, its passage down 



— 130 



The stream of Time — Its laurels won ou 
Many fields of strife where Right met Wrong, and 
Wrested from its iron grasp its sword and 
Battle ax — its answer to the prayer 
Of Afric's sable sons whose unrequited 
Toil and undressed wounds appealed in 
Freedom's name for help — its honored living 
And its honored dead, whose names and deeds add 
Glory to its years — all this historic fame, 
More highly to be prized than Ophir's gold 
And diadems of Kings — all these, and more, 
— Much more — belong to the New Century 
By right of birth. 

It gives to us the wealth, 
And patient toil of fruitful minds that day 
And night have quarried in the mines of Truth — 
It opened up the long sealed magazines 
Of power, and wakened sleeping forces 
From repose, and geared them to the workshops 
Of the world — it placed a crown of glory 
On the head of honest toil, and from the 
Burning Mount of Love it thundered out the 
Brotherhood of Man. 

The new-born Century, 
With dew of youth still on its brow, points to 
The wid'ning fields of thought, and mines of wealth 
Yet unexplored inviting genuis to 
Unlock the secret chambers where repose 
The subtile powers that daily from the 
Dust are weaving in earth's noiseless looms the 
Varied forms of life, and which await the 
Magic touch of science to unbolt their doors 
And send them forth on tireless wings to do 
The errands of the world. 



— 131 — 



Science with its 
lyighted torch and searching eye — Reason with 
Its burnished blade defending fearlessly 
The citadels of truth — Hope pointing to 
The highlands where the mists of error fall 
Not on the pathway of the soul — and Faith 
Serene as morning 'midst the battle fields 
Of thought — these, as the Century now new, 
Shall pale with years and fade away, shall in 
Its place stand as beacon lights to guide 
Men to the paths that lead to truth and God. 



Met in The Windowless Chamber. 



Met in the windowless chamber — 

Met in the silence of rest; 
Met, but no love word was spoken — 

Met, where there's no anxious breast. 

Met after waiting and watching — 
Met at the end of long years; 

Met where no farewells are spoken — 
Met safe from sorrow and tears. 

Met with a cheerful, " good morning " — 
Met where the day never ends; 

Met where the bliss is unending — 

Met 'midst the greeting of friends. 

Met where the life is eternal — 
Met in the welcome of home; 

Met with the good of all ages — 

Met at the Throne of the lamb. 



— 132 



Thanksgiving. 



A nation on its knees for prayer and 
Praise ! 

A hush, amidst the noise of ceaseless 
Care and toil, while countless eyes and anxious 
Hearts are turned to God ! 

This is the nation's 
Holy Day ; a mid week Sabbath ; when the 
Glow of furnace fires shall dim, and engines' 
Arms of steel shall rest, and looms shall stand in 
Silence all the day, deserted by the 
Weary ones who through the weeks and months have 
Stood and watched their shuttles come and go. 
A joyous day ; when smiles come back again 
To heavy hearts and brows of care, and tides of 
I^ove and mirth crowd from the soul the wants and 
Woes of life. This is a sacred family 
Day ; a time to kindle up anew the 
Fires of early love which absence, care and 
Years have dimmed, but had no power to 
Quench ; the time of coming home again, to 
Print the kiss of love once more on mother's 
Wrinkled brow, and taste again the luscious 
Things her hands have made, and share the greetings 
Of a father's love. Here 'neath the old home 
Roof, child-life comes back with all its gush and 
Glee, and for awhile we live amidst its 
Pranks and pouts, forgetful of the years that 
Lie between the Now and Then, and hardly 
Note the changes time has wrought. 

But merry 
Hearts can never long forget the loved 
And lost, and silence settles on each soul, 
As names of love are called which nevermore 



133 — 



Will answer to a mother's voice. But still 

The loved ones out of sight, amidst these 

Festive hours, seem near as when in childhood's 

Merry days we wandered side by side, and 

Strolled along the running brook or gamboled 

'Neath the orchard boughs. Though tears unbidden 

Fall when memory takes us by the hand and 

Leads us to the graves of those we loved, yet still 

These hours are not for grief. The ceaseless flow 

Of good through all the days and months demands 

A ceaseless song of praise. The house of God 

To-day should echo with the voice of song 

From loving, loyal hearts. With plenty He 

Has crowned the fields, and streams of goodness 

Flow on every side. His power has checked 

The march of death that threatened to invade 

Our land, and peace has smiled on all our 

Hills and vales. The early and the latter 

Rains have brought us fruitful fields, and plenty 

Sits enthroned on every hand. The God 

Who gave us Freedom's sacred boon has raised 

Up countless loyal hearts to guard it well 

From treason's blighting hand. How blind must be 

The eye that cannot see, in all these gifts 

The loving, guiding hand that made the Worlds. 



134 — 



A Living Presence. 



In all that is, iu earth or sea or sky, 
There seems a living presence; a secret 
Power that wakens in the soul the most 
Inspiring thoughts, and out of things not seen, 
And things that have no life, brings forth a new 
Creation. It steals upon the heart as 
Morning steals upon the hills and gilds with 
Hues of gold the very dust on which we 
Tread. 

It gives a form to every swelling bud, 
And by its magic touch the tides of life 
Flow through the veins and arteries of earth. 
Its voice is heard in every running rill. 
And summer breeze that floats through forest boughs, 
And all the mingling sounds of earth seem but 
The echo of its matchless voice. 

Its power 
Can kindle into life imagination's 
lyatent fires, and stir the spirit's depths as 
Tempests stir the caverns of the sea, and 
Toss upon the shore new forms of life, and 
Buried gems on which the light of day has 
Never shown. The glittering dews of early 
Morn are lighted by its touch, and every 
Throb of life in all that creeps or crawls or 
Flies, is but the ceaseless pulse of its great 
Heart of life. 

We see it when Aurora 
Tints the night sky with electric fires, and 
Paints a blush of beauty on the gloomy 
Brow of night. It shapes the brilliant bow of 
I,ight that spans Niagara's liquid brow, 



— 135 — 



And in its ceaseless roar we hear the echo 

Of its voice. When lightnings flash, and thunders 

Roll as if the magazines of heaven had 

Burst, we feel this presence midst the awful 

Fray, and stand appalled at its resistless 

Power. 

There is no night so dark, nor forest 
Shades so deep, but he who seeks repose can 
Hear its whisper, as the night-winds sigh like 
Vesper hymns to lull him into sleep. In 
Twilight's sacred hour, when on the soul there 
Falls a hush — like night-dews on the drooping 
Flowers, amidst the dews and damps — it lays 
Its hand in ours, and walks with muflfled steps 
Along our evening paths. 

When lone and sad, 
We leave the thoroughfares of life and seek 
The silent city of the dead, to sit 
Alone and weep beside the graves of those 
We love, this Presence seems to share our grief, 
And points us to The Land where mourner's sigh 
Will nevermore be heard. 

How hallowed is 
The place; how sacred is the hour when earth 
And heaven seem so near that every tear 
We shed is seen by spirit eyes, and as 
We breathe the names of those we love we seem 
To hear them answer from the other shore. 
Here by our loved and lost the seen and 
Unseen meet, for just beyond the pale, cold 
Realm of death. Faith sees a new empire of 
Life where spirit-being may unfold its 
Latent powers through endless years, and in 
This Living Presence dwell forevermore. 



136 



1 Am The Life. 



Through the long aisles of Time have echoed these 
Strange words since the eventful day, when from 
The guarded tomb the Risen Christ came forth 
And opened to the world the empire of 
An endless life. 

Like waves succeeding waves 
When driven by the storm — so each succeeding 
Age has borne these magic words that fell from 
Jesus' lips on time's resistless tide, till 
Every land and island far away 
Have heard the joyful news. 

On this new Easter 
Day, " I am the Life " in soul inspiring 
Praise — in anthem, song, and chant — from choir and 
Hut and home, will roll like some grand hymn of 
Joy, till earth and heaven are swept by one 
Great tidal wave of cheerful song. 

The night 
Of doubt had hung upon the graves of earth 
So long — the light of hope so dimly fell 
Upon the land of death — no marvel when 
The Sun of Life burst through the mists, and 
Tearful eyes saw morning dawn upon a 
World of tombs, that songs of gladness broke on 
Aching hearts. 

Henceforth, beside each new made 
Grave, Faith took her place, and pointing to the 
Life land opened by the Risen Christ, dispelled 
The gloom that drapes the sacred tents where sleeps 
Our loved and gone; while low and soft, she 



— 137 



Whispers in each Hst'ning ear " I am the I^ife. " 

Uncounted thousands in love's minor key 

Will join to swell the I^ife-song of to-day; 

For from the homes of earth where grateful hearts 

In harmony have sang through happy years 

The Matchless Name, have gone the voices we shall 

Hear no more, and on whose hearthstone rests a 

Ceaseless hush. 

To-day new voices help to 
Swell the chorus of the skies, and spirit 
Songs will mingle with the songs of earth, and 
Echo in our hearts; and thus the homes of 
Heaven, and homes of earth, will still be one. 

" I am the lyife." With this song upon 
Our lips, and welling up from joyful hearts 
Once more the church below, and church above 
Will join to swell the praise of Him who once 
Was dead, but lives forevermore. 

The ebb 
And flow of years — the changing tides of thought — 
The world's increasing light — these all have 
Added lustre to His matchless Name. 



138 — 



Mystic Borderland. 



There is a mystic border land 

Which bounds the Now and Then ; 
Upon whose shores the waves of Time 

Strew scenes long past again. 
They lie about us like the gems 

Cast on the ocean's strand 
"Which running waves have left to glow 

Upon the cheerless sand. 

Behind us lie life's verdant Then 

Whose hill tops glow with light ; 
And love-thoughts flash from out the years 

As stars from out the night. 
lyOved voices float upon the air — 

The Now becomes the Then ; 
While backward flows the tide of years, 

And we are young again. 

Through all the tangled web of years 

There runs one golden thread 
That binds the heart to those we love — 

Our living, and our dead. 
Beyond the Now and Then of earth, 

The tide of life flows on ; 
For soul life here, and soul life there. 

Are in their nature one. 



— 139 



The First Geranium Bud. 

All hail to the first born of Spring tide ! 
I have watched for you, day after day ; 
Have bathed you and warmed you all winter, 
And wondered that you should delay. 

I placed you each day in the window 
In hope that the cheerful sunshine 
Would waken you from your long slumber 
And gently kiss open your eyes. 

The night frosts have noiselessly watched you 
To touch your soft cheek with their breath ; 
But I've guarded the time of your sleeping, 
And saved you from chilling and death. 

Your pulse beats grow quicker and stronger, 
Your wrappings of winter are old ; 
And soon will the fingers of sunshine 
Your soft, blushing petals unfold. 

Your brightness and beauty will cheer me, 
For your presence will 'mind me of one 
Who planted and lovingly watched you. 
But has gone — never more to return ! 

So above the low tent where she' s sleeping 
I'll plant you with tenderest care ; 
She will know you are blooming above her — 
She will know who has planted you there. 



— 140 — 



When the Sun Goes Down. 



When the shadows longer grow, 
And the zephyrs whisperd low; 
When the light pales on the hills, 
And the nightshades drape the vales ; 
Then 'tis sweet to steal away 
At the hour of closing day, 
And, somewhere, be with God alone — 
As the evening sun goes down. 

In the stillness of the hour, 

On the soul their steals a power. 

Gently as the dews of night, 

Softly as the morning light. 

Which wakens from their long repose 

The memories of far-off days, 

When, with loved ones long since gone 

We watched the evening sun go down. 

Words of love from lips now still 
Seem once more the heart to thrill; 
And voices we shall hear no more 
Come to us on the evening air. 
Like whispers from the far away — 
When sitting at the close of day 
Amidst the gloaming, all alone. 
We watch the evening sun go down. 



— 141 — 



Sunbeams. 



A little spot of sunshine 

Came like a patch of gold, 

And fell upon a flower bud 

As it shivered in the cold. 

The dews of night had drenched it — 

Its tiny head was bare — 
Its whole form seemed to quiver, 

Chilled by the evening air. 

But when the sunshine kissed it, 

In just a little while 
Its blushing petals opened 

And answered with a smile. 

So, often in life's trials. 

When all the world seems cold, 
One love-word spoken to us 

Comes like this patch of gold. 

Its glow breaks through the night mists. 
It floods the heart with light ; 

And gladness, like the morning. 
Succeeds the darkest night. 



— 142 



Not Far Between. 



It is not far between 
lyife's morning and its night; 
But oh how swiftly flow 
The hours that come and go ; 
Nor can we stay their flight. 

It is not far between 
Our days of hopes and fears ; 
And yet amidst them all, 
Upon our pathway falls 
Sunshine, to dry our tears. 

It is not far between 
The hearthstone and the tomb ; 
But light shines on the way, 
And leads us to a day 
Where good byes never come. 

It is not far between 
The death land's dreary shore 
And the immoral strand — 
Life's verdant border land — 
Where death comes nevermore. 



— 143 



His Name Shall be Called Wonderful. 



" I shall see Him, but not now; 
I shall behold him, but not nigh." 

" Unto us a child is born, 

Unto us a son is given." 
He * * * * 

A hush had fallen on the world. 

The sound 
Of war had died away, and peace was 
Brooding like a gentle spirit over 
Every land. The reign of strife had lasted 
Long, and hate and wrong had left a blight like 
Vengeful spirits everywhere. Men wearied 
Of the sight of marshaled hosts, and fields of 
Carnage red with blood, and in their hearts they 
Prayed for peace — the promised golden age. 
When war should be no more. 

When Paradise 
Was lost by sin, and conscious guilt had filled 
Man' s heart with fear, the promise of a Seed 
Whose heel should bruise the serpent's head, came like 
A bow of light amidst the awful gloom, 
And Hope descried the coming of a day 
When peace once more 'twixt heaven and earth should 
Be restored. 

Age after age the altars of 
Devotion glowed with sacrificial fires, 
And sprinkling priest and sprinkled blood were each 
Prophetic of the coming Christ. 

His long 
Delay had left the gloom of fear and doubt 
On many anxious hearts, and unbelief 



144 — 



Had left its withering blight on many 
Who had fondly hoped the Paradise 
Of peace would come again to earth. 

But in 
The plans of God, the great events that change 
The channels where historic tides have run 
From age to age, and opened up to thought 
And faith still grander fields, come on so slow, 
And hidden causes lie so far away. 
That we forget He holds the reins of power 
By which all nations rise and fall ; and that 
With him a thousand years are as a day. 
God's bow of promise spanned the awful 
Gorge of gloomy years from the eventful 
Day when Paradise was closed to sinning 
Man, to that new morning far away, when 
David's Greater Son should come in peace, and 
Reign forevermore. 

The fulness of the 
Time had come, and Hope began to kindle 
Up anew its fires, which threw on earth's long 
Night its mellow rays, as when through rifted 
Clouds the moon's pale light falls on the hills and 
Vales below. The pulseless world began to 
Waken from its morbid sleep, and longing 
Hearts, inspired anew with faith, were waiting 
For the Shiloh. 

The clock in Time's old tower 
Had just struck twelve, and Bethlehem's busy 
Streets, that all the day were thronged with stranger 
Guests, were quiet now, and sleep had lulled 
The weary ones to peaceful rest. 



— 145 



No night 
I/ike this had ever settled on these hills ; 
And never such a morning dawned upon 
The world. The Jubilee of Peace began 
When from the midnight sky the angel-choirs 
Pealed out in notes of joy an anthem earth 
Had never heard before, the melody of 
Which has never died away. 

' ' Good will to 
Men, and peace on earth," broke on the wondering 
Shepherd's ears, and echoed o'er the hills and 
Vales, for Israel's conquering King had come, and in 
A manger, wrapped in swaddling cloths, the Christ 
Now slept upon the Virgin Mother's breast. 



Life's Highlands. 



We are tenting here awhile. 
With storm clouds overhead, 
Filling the heart with dread — 
And turn our wistful eyes 
Out on the gray, cold skies, 
To catch the morning's smile. 

Over the hills of Time — 
Ivike mountains far away 
Bathed in the light of day — 
Faith sees lyife's Highlands rise, 
Beneath the cloudless skies 
Of heaven's unchanging clime. 

Beyond life's farthest bound — 
The shore-line of the years, 
Made up of smiles, and tears — 
Hope catches gleams of light. 
Amidst the gloom of night. 
Where endless life is found. 



146 



The Thought World. 



O the wonderful world of Thought ! 
As broad as the fields of space, 
Its shore line no vision can trace ; 

For search as we may 

It stretches away, 
And widens as onward we fly. 

O the wonderful world of Thought ! 
When the tempest of care. 
And the mists of despair 

Shut out the sunlight 

Changing noon into night, 
We find an oasis of rest. 

O the wonderful world of Thought ! 

Its highlands are radiant with light, 
Its valleys are glowing and bright, 
And its meadows and hills, 
Its lakes and its rills. 
Are ablaze with the light of truth. ^ 

O the wonderful world of Thought ! 
No tyrant its gateways control — 
Its storehouse is open to all : 

To old age, and to youth — 

To all lovers of truth 
The thought world invites to its path. 

O the wonderful world of Thought ! 

Its pathways are througed with the brave, 
With the learned, the peasant and slave ; 
For earth's night flies away 
And there dawns a new day 
When the souls of men shall be free. 



147 



The Risen Christ. 



All hail to Israel's conquering king, 

From out the night of death ! The head on which 

Was pressed the crown of thorns is crowned 

With glory now, for Life, Immortal 

Lite has triumphed o'er the grave. The triumph 

Of the tomb was short ; for ere the victors' 

Shout had died away, the world's new morning 

Broke upon the night of death. 

If faith shrank 
Back, and hope expired when darkness spread 
Its mantle o'er the sun, and rending rocks 
And opening graves seemed seized with pain 
When Jesus died; still love kept vigil at 
His grave. The tomb was closed when twilight 
Deepened into night, and Jesus laid unguarded 
Till the morning dawned, for 
Friend and foe alike had left the sacred 
Spot (made sacred as His place of rest) , the 
One to spend the sleepless night in grief and 
Tears — the other to rejoice as o'er a 
Vanquished foe. But when the new day dawned 
The men who clamored for his death, asked for 
A guard to keep his grave, lest vandal hands 
Should steal his lifeless form, and then announce 
His resurrection. The guard was set, and 
On the tomb the royal seal was placed, 
And now the Christ became a captive in 
The realm of death. 

All day the guard in 
Measured steps paced off his beat and doubtless 
Many a jest and ringing laugh broke on 
The stillness of the sacred place, where now 



— 148 — 



In calm repose, the Christ was resting. The 
First day passed and twilight threw its shadows 
On the hills, and sleep soon closed the world's great 
Eye — but all night long the guard paced out the 
Slo^\^ dull hours, till streaks of morning light 
Announced the coming of the second day. 
One more day and night will test His claim 
To be the Christ. 

All day in anxious groups 
The priests and people met, and half in jest 
And half in fear, spoke of the great to-morrow. 
The hearts of love that from afar had watched 
The tragic scene and lingered near the tomb 
Till darkness threw its mantle o'er the place. 
Had waited through dreary hours to bring 
The spices they'd prepared, that when the guard 
Should be recalled, they might anoint their Lord. 
The second day had closed, and midnight hung 
Upon the hills. 

The clock of time in all 
The years, had never struck an hour like this; 
For prophecy and faith, at Joseph's new- 
Made tomb had met in waiting for their Christ 
To break the thongs of death and open to 
The world a new empire of life. The time 
Of waiting had seemed long to those who loved 
Their L,ord, and night seemed slow to lift its 
Gloomy curtain from the place where Jesus 
Slept. At last the morning broke upon the 
Distant hills, and on the skirts of night it 
Threw a blush of beauty. 

Look ! See ! From out 
The sky, on noiseless wings, in vestments like 
The sun, the messengers of God descend, and 



— 149 — 



Backward roll the stone that closed the tomb, 
Regardless of the royal seal, and from 
The realm of death the conquering Christ steps 
Forth — not in the wrappings of the grave, but 
In the vestments of Immortal Life. 

The 
Guards fell at His feet as if the shafts of 
Death had pierced their hearts, and soon the news, 
Like an electric wave, had thrilled the 
City. All Hail ! had fallen from His lips 
On saddened hearts that hastened towards 
The tomb, like notes of triumph of a 
Victor from a field of blood, and kindled 
Up anew the fires of the disciples ' 
Faith, the glow of which has never passed away. 
The world's long night of gloom that hung like mists 
O'er all the ages past, and dimmed the 
Light of cherished hopes, was ended when the 
Christ arose ; for Life's New Morning threw 
Its brilliant rays o'er all the realm of death. 
And lighted all the new-made graves of earth. 



150 — 



Yosemite's Lone Grave. 



While on a visit to the Yosemite Valley, on one of my evening' 
rambles along the banks of the Merced River, I came to a clump of 
cedars and pines, in which, almost concealed from view, I dis- 
covered a lone grave. It was unmarked save by a low, unpainted 
picket enclosure. Upon inquiry I learned that it was the grave of 
a Frenchman who came alone and in haate to the valley to spend 
but the day, and while descending the rude stairway at Nevada Falls 
he fell into the gorge below and died before he could be reached. As 
no information of him could be obtained he was buried. At the 
time his was the only grave in the valley. 



In Yosemite' s beautiful vale 

Sleeps a stranger from bright, sunny France, 

In an unmarked grave, all alone ; 

And the rippling Merced 

Chants a dirge for the dead, 
Like a heart when its loved one is gone. 

'Neath the shade of the cedar and pine, 
Where the wild birds their carols will sing, 
And the mists the wild flowers will lave. 
Strangers laid him to rest 
With no flowers on his breast 
And no tears on the new made grave. 

As I sat in the gloaming, alone, 
By the side of his windowless tent, 
I thought of his far-away home — 
Of the eyes dim with tears 
That have watched through the years 
For the loved one who never will come. 

I said to the sleeper : * ' Sleep on ! 

The night of the grave has an end ; 

A morning will break on the sky, 
Then the parted will meet 
And our loved ones will greet 
In the land of the Sweet By and By." 



— 151 — 



The Dying Year. 



The bell in Time's old tower 

Is tolling out the hour 
Of the expiring Year : 

It sounds like Love's good bye, 
Or Sorrow's muffled sigh 

When death is near. 

It echoes o'er the hills, 

And murmurs through the vales 
Like music far away 

When daylight all is gone. 
And night her mantle throws 

On the departing day. 

The Year is dying now : 

The night wind soft and low 

Breathes out its plaintifiE sigh, 
Its weird and mournful note 

Out on the darkness float 

Like whispers from the sky. 

Stroke, after stroke, I count 

Like heart beats low and faint 

When death is coming on. 

Death's dew is falling fast — 

The hour will soon be past, 
When all is gone. 



— 152 



My Backwoods Home. 



Oh, give to me my backwoods home — 

The old log house and puncheon floor, 

The back-log fire, its open hearth. 

The latch-string, and the wood-hinged door. 

Give me my bed up stairs once more, 

And let me hear the pattering rain 
That dashed upon the leaky roof, 

And on the window pane. 

How often in the blustering night 

The snow would sift through unchinked cracks. 
And stilly carpet all the floor, 

All ready for our barefoot tracks. 

Snow on our breeches, on our socks — 

Snow on the pillow, in our hair — 
Snow on the chair on which we sat — 

Snow in our shoes, snow everywhere! 

Maybe you think we didn't laugh 

When first we landed out of bed; 
How light and nimble was our step ! 

What lots of funny things we said ! 

I'd love to paddle in the creek, 

And sit upon its grassy shore. 
With pole and string and pin-made hook, 

And bob for ' ' minnies " as of yore. 

I used to cram my pockets full 

Of pebbles, for my leather sling; 
Then watch the stumps and trees for birds, 

And try to take them on the wing. 

I wish that I could see again 

The barnyard where we used to play 

Around the stacks, and chase the calves, 
And hunt for hens' nests every day. 



— 153 — 



Was ever childish sport so sweet, 

Or fun and glee so great, as when 

In playing hide-and-seek, we found 
The eggs of some secretive hen ? 

Oh, for another good day's hunt 

With our old dog, my dear old " Low " ! 
What lots of rabbits we two caught ! 

I seem to hear him barking now. 

The first great grief my boy-heart felt 

Was when that dog laid down and died; 

I see him as I smoothed his hair, 

And held his paw — Oh, how I cried ! 

How well do I remember yet 

The merry days when we would tap 

The sugar bush and clean the troughs. 
Made ready for a run of " sap." 

How grand it was to burn the brush 

And watch the waving sheets of light ! 
We'd whistle out our merry notes 

While " chunking log heaps " late at night. 

The dear old woods have disappeared; 

The fences all have rotted down; 
The stumps 'round which I used to plow 

Have been grubbed out, and now are gone. 

These childhood scenes have passed away. 
And my October days have come; 

But sometimes I forget I'm old 

When dreaming of that backwoods home. 

The fires have died upon its hearth; 

The old log house has tumbled down; 
The hearts that loved me then are still, 

And I am homesick and — alone. 



154 — 



Our Golden Wedding. 



A glow of mellow sunshine, wafe, 
Is gilding now our evening sky, 

And we are sitting in the twilight, 
Thinking of the years gone by. 

Fifty years have glided past us 

Since we breathed our solemn vows ; 

But the love that then inspired us. 

In our hearts glows brightly now. 

Before us rose life's sunny hill-tops 
And the tides of hope ran high. 

While we bravely faced life's battles, 
Dreaming but of victory. 

We possessed no worldly treasures, 
But we had each other's love, 

Strength' ning us in hours of weakness 
lyike sweet manna from above. 

Duty called us from the pathway 

We had planned for coming years, 

And we buried hopes then cherished — 
Watered by our falling tears. 

But we heard the Master calling, 
And we dare not answer, no: 

For the souls of men were dying. 
And our mission was, to go. 

We have toiled in want and plenty — 

But the things that then seemed loss, 

Proved to be our richest treasure — 
Consecrated by the cross. 



155 



We are watching, wife, and waiting 
For the summons to depart, 

And we must be near the crossing, 
Where our paths of life will part. 

'Midst the gloaming, wife, we're standing 
As we then stood, side by side ; 

And to-day, again 1 greet you 
As my loving. Golden Bride. 



On the Birthday of a Friend. 



You're standing on life's borderland- 
Its twilight hours are here ; 

The shadows deepen on your path, 
The midnight must be near. 

Behind you are the busy years, 
But radiant still with light : 

For on the battlefields of Truth 
You stood for God, and Right. 

The dew of peace is on your brow, 
Love's light is in your heart ; 

You are but waiting orders now — 
All ready to depart. 

We come to-day to say "All Hail !" 
We greet you in pure love ; 

But all who love you are not here — 
Some wait you from above. 



— 156 — 



My Backwoods School. 



Last night I had a lovely dream 
Which thrilled my very soul ; 

I thought I was a child again 
Attending district school. 

I don't believe I'd seen the place 
For more than fifty years, 

But when I saw that old school house 
My eyes just filled with tears. 

I stood upon the very spot 

Right where it used to be ; 

It hadn't changed — no, not one bit ! — 
As far as I could see. 

There was the desk on which I wrote, 

The bench on which I sat, 
For on them both I cut my name — 

I saw the very spot. 

There stood the same old rusty stove- 
It wasn't changed one dot — 

On which we used to slyly spit 
To see if it was hot. 

There was the same old water pail — 

I'd often filled it up — 
And there was hung upon the nail 

The same old leaky cup. 

My dinner basket, made of splints, 

Some red, some blue, some white- 

'Twas always full of stufiE at noon 
But empty every night. 



— 157 



The path to school was through the woods ; 

In spring ' t was full of flowers ; 
And there I'd often stop and play 
And ramble 'round for hours. 

I knew that sometimes I'd be late — 
But Where's the boy who'd see 

A squirrel perched upon a limb 
And wouldn't climb the tree? 

I always knew the teacher 'd say : 

" What made you come so late ? " 

But when he'd sit me with the girls 
I'd bravely meet my fate (?) 

There was the crack acrost the floor, 

Each scholar had to toe ; 
Then to the teacher all must turn 

And make a graceful bow. 

They seemed to think in backwoods' school 

We ought to be polite ; 
But now it seems that study's dropped 

And left clear out of sight. 

Here, too, we had our spelling schools. 

And challenged all the town 
To come and bring the best it had 

And we would spell them down. 

Sometimes we did — sometimes we failed — 

But each one did his best. 
And happy was the lucky one 

That spelled down all the rest 

But when the " spelling match " was done; 

And quitting time had come; 
Each fellow sorted out his girl 

And waited on her home. 



158 



The older people always said 

That's what these " spells " were for, 
But, just the same, we had " our" spells, 

For spell-bound ( ?) boys we were 

At last I wakened from my dream 
And then I lay and thought 

Of all my early schoolboy pranks 
I seemed to have forgot. 

My outer self I see grows old. 

My inner self — no, never ! 
The scaffold soon will drop to dust — 

My soul stay young forever. 



The Song of the Lark. 



The song of the lark floats out on the air 

Like notes from the harp strings of love : 
With the dew on her breast 
From her meadow-built nest 
She greets the new day 
With a sweet, cheerful lay. 
Then up toward the skies 
In her rapture she flies 

To bathe in the pure light above. 

From her bird soul she offers sweet matin songs. 
And who will deny that she feels 
The emotions of praise 
As she sings her glad lays ; 
And breathes a bird prayer 
As she floats through the air. 
That the God of the day 
Will lead her His way 

By the light He in her reveals. 



— 159 — 



Evolution. 



Of all the strange things our thinkei s have thought. 
And all the strange things that science has taught — 
The strangest of all is how life first began — 
How a monad evolves till it comes out a man. 

We are told that at first we are eggs in a cell — 
But what laid the egg no thinker can tell. 
Then science assures us that monkeys and men 
Are hatched from this egg — though not by a hen. 

Again it is said, all life is the same 
In fish, men and puppies — but different in name. 
And when we read Huxley, it is said, you will see, 
That man is but just an improved chimpanzee. 

According to science, mankind only stand 

In the line of ascent from polyps to man: 

So our scholars and thinkers who in wisdom have led, 

Are but college-bred monkeys, that stand at the head. 

They tell us all nature exists without cause — 
That it never began — that it makes its own laws ; 
That order and life, which are everywhere found, 
Are the product of causes that exist without mind. 

But Reason asserts that phenomena lead 

To an adequate cause, from which they proceed ; 

That these all reveal a great final cause — 

Its attributes, potencies, nature and laws. 

As life begets life — so mind begets mind ; 

Each always producing just after its kind. 

And as mind is not found, not in monad nor clod ; 

It must be in its nature the offspring of God. 



160 



The Old South Woods. 



In the south woods I am strolling — 
Strolling where I played in childhood, 
Where in spring I gathered wild flowers, 
With my dog and bow and arrows. 
Hunted for the birds and squirrels 
As they perched on limbs above me. 
Sang and chattered as if laughing, 
Laughing at my bow and arrow, 
Laughing that I tried to shoot them, 
Shoot them when so high above me. 

Often when I aimed right at them, 
Took good aim and fired right at them, 
Fired away but did not hit them — 
Then the squirrel chattered at me, 
Whisked his tail as if to mock me, 
Laughed because I lost my arrow, 
Laughed because I could not hit him; 
Seemed delighted, saying to me : 
" Don't you wish you had your arrow ? 
Don't you wish that you could hit me ? " 

Then the blue jay and the robin 
When they heard the squirrel laughing 
Seemed to say : Poor little fellow ! 
You're no hunter — j^ou're no marksman ! 
You can't shoot as high as we are 
With that little bow and arrow ! 
Do you think that you can hit me, 
Shoot way up in these old maples — 
Shoot a squirrel on an oak tree 
With that little bow and arrow ? 
Nothing but a cotton bow string 
Just a sliver for an arrow! 
Don't you like to hear us singing. 
Singing to you in the South woods ? 



— 161 — 



Singing when your'e in the sap bush, 
Singing when you come for flow^ers ? 
We were hatched in these grand south woods 
Build our nests here; here our homes are; 
Sing our love songs here each morning, 
Sing ourselves to sleep each evening 
In the cradles we have builded — 
Cradles rocked by gentle night winds. 
Why do you come here to kill us ? 
Do we harm you, do you wrong ? 
When you work here in the sap bush 
Then we sing to cheer and rest you, • 
Sing the songs our mothers taught us, 
Sing because we love the South woods. 
Sometimes we have heard your whistle- 
Whistle tunes that we have taught you; 
Then we think that you must love us, 
Then we feel that you won't shoot us. 
You have watched us when nest building. 
You have wondered who has taught us — 
Taught us where and how to build them. 
How to fasten them securely 
To the boughs on which we build them — 
Build them so the winds won't wreck them." 

Then the robin seemed to watch me. 
Looked at me as if thinking — 
Thinking if she had not seen me 
Climbing trees to steal her young ones, 
Stealing eggs when she was absent. 

I had dropped my bow and arrow. 
Dropped them by me as I watched her. 
But I made to her no answer, 
Answered not, but still she eyed me. 

Then she asked me : "Do you wonder — 
Wonder that the birds all hate 3'ou ? 



— 162 — 



Fly away when yon are coming; 
Build our nests up in the tree tops; 
Build them far out on the branches? 
Don't you know we miss our young ones 
When you steal them from their nest homes; 
That we mourn as would your mother 
If some thief stole you from her home ? 

As I listened to this bird talk — 
Bird talk from the boughs above me; 
Saw them watch my bow and arrow — 
Though they knew I could not hit them, 
Knew my arrows could not reach them, 
Still I thought of what they told me, 
Told me of their south woods home life, 
Told me of the nests they builded, 
Told me of their eggs and young ones, 
Of the songs with which they charmed me, 
Told me of the nests I'd plundered. 
Told me of the grief I'd caused them. 

Then I threw away my arrows. 
Threw away my bow and arrows, 
Left the squirrel perched above me, 
Left the birds up in the tree tops. 
Whistled for my dog and left them — 
Left them in their south woods home. 

Looking backward through the year mists, 

Looking at the far off picture, 

I can see the same grand south woods, 

See my little bow and arrow. 

See the robins and the squirrels, 

See the flowers and catch their fragrance; 

For the pictures of the spirit — 

Pictures stamped upon the soul life 

Never fade by time and distance — 

Never dim, and never perish. 



— 163 



If We But Knew. 



If we but knew how like a dart 
One little word can wound the heart, 
As we ourselves would shrink from pain — 
So would we never wound again. 

If we could see how one cold frown 
Can chill a heart, and weigh it down 
We'd brush each shadow out of sight. 
And wreathe our brows with love's soft light. 

If we could learn that gentleness 
Inspires the heart like dews of peace — 
Our words, like music from above, 
Would soothe the heart like songs of love. 

If we could feel how weak we are — 

How prone to wrong — how^ often err — 

How it would soften heart and mind 

Toward those who, like ourselves, have sinned. 

If we in heart, and life are pure, 
And love controls us hour by hour — 
Then will we weep o'er those who fall, 
And thus exalt, and win a soul. 

If we have learned Christ as He is — 
If in our spirit we are His — 
His love and gentleness will show 
In all we think, and sa}^, and do. 



164 



Conscience. 



O Conscience, Conscience, thou art but another 
Name for God ! 

No eye hath ever seen 
Thy mystic form, nor ear hath ever heard 
Thy voice in syllable or word, yet 
We know thou art a Real Presence. 
Distance cannot hide from thee ; nor can the 
Darkness shut thee from the heart ; for if we 
Fly to earth's remotest bounds, behold we 
Meet thee there ! And if we hide in deepest 
Shades of night, there's not a thought that is not 
Known to thee ; nor yet a secret of the 
Soul thou knowest not. 

Thy talisman for 
Spirit life is " Ought — for danger, is Ought 
Not : One is the still, small voice of God, whose 
Approbation thrills the pure in heart — the 
Other is the thunder drum of doom that 
Pales the cheek of guilt. 

When storms of passion 
Sweep the soul, and sin and shame assail the 
Heart ; then quick as an electric flash thy 
Light falls on the paths of death to warn it 
Of impending woe. If pleasure throws its 
Baneful spell upon the heart, and with 
Seductive smiles would lead the feet astraj'. 
Thy light reveals the hidden snare, and throws 
Its penetrating gleam down in the awful 
Gorge where shipwrecked manhood lies. 

Unbidden 
Conscience walks amidst the busy mart of 
Trade where honor falls before the greed of 



165 -- 



Gain, aud faith is trampled in the dust ; where 
Virtue is exchanged for gold without remorse ; 
But he whom she condemns, cannot impeach 
The justice of her verdict. She holds the 
Scales of right with an impartial hand, and 
Weighs without respect of place, or wealth, each 
Motive of the heart. 

It was thy voice, O 
Conscience, sounding in old England's ear that 
Bade her call her slave ships from the seas, and 
Trade no more in tears and blood. It was thy 
Light poured on the Great Republic's heart that 
Bade it free its slaves and open to the 
World a temple at whose holy shrine 
Manhood from every land may come and worship. 

What are the world's convulsives throbs to-day, 
But echoes from the voice of Conscience heard 
Above the din of war ? 

When Potentates 
Shall heed her call, and legislators listen to 
Her voice, then shall the roll of war drums cease. 
And Conscience rule the empires of the world. 



166 



Thrashing with a Flail. 



Of all the mean work that a boy ever did: 

To ditch, or to chop, or even split rails, 
The hardest and meatiest of all work on a farm 

Is when they compel him to thrash with a flail. 

I had always to thrash on the da3^s when it rained, 
For that was a job that seemed never to fail; 

But all the amusement such days ever brought. 
Was thrashing alone in the barn with a flail. 

I've chopped with dull axes, and mowed with dull scythes; 

I've worked without mittens, in snow and in hail, 
But to chop and to mow, and plod round in the snow. 

Is more cheerful by far than to thrash with a flail. 

I've tramped in the sap bush all day in the slush, 
And lugged barrels of sap in a big, heavy pail; 

But with shoes full of water, and feet cold as ice, 
It was pleasanter far, than to thrash with a flail. 

I've husked corn when it rained, and husked in the cold; 

I've mowed thistles bare-footed, and cut brush in a swale, 
But nothing so " riled " me and made me so mad. 

As when they compelled me to thrash with a flail. 

I've pulled cockle in wheat fields, watched "gaps" by the 
hour. 

Shelled corn, and pulled flax, loaded hay in a gale; 
But pulling and shelling, and loading and all, 

Isn't half as mean work as to thrash with a flail. 

I've churned by the hour, when no butter would come, 
And I knew all the time that my effort would fail; 

But I'd rather churn water from daylight till dark, 

Than go " Humpty-dump-dump ! " — one hour with a flail. 



— 167 



I've stood in the water all day and washed sheep; 

I've rubbed and scrubbed them from head to the tail ; 
But I'd rather, far rather, be soaked by the hour. 

Than to be ordered to thrash in the barn with a flail ! 

I've plowed with slow oxen; I've milked kicking cows; 

Been knocked from my stool, lost my milk and my pail ; 
But I'd rather be kicked and all splattered with milk, 

Than forever be thrashing alone with a flail. 

I can see that old barn as it looked to me then ; 

Its hay mow, and scaffold — the very old nail 
That I drove in the studding, way back out of sight, 

Where I hung when not thrashing (?) my much hated 
flail. 

I look backward to-day, through the mists of the years. 

And see the bright spots that have marked the long trail; 

And I smile when I think how I hated the work 
Of thrashing alone, all day long, with a flail ! 



— 168 — 



Our Little Mary. 



One more birdling gone 

From out its nest; 
No more in love's bright bowers 
Shs sings away the hours — 

She's gone to rest. 

Another opening flower 

Has drooped and died; 
Its petals bright and fair 
Shed fragrance on the air 
On every side. 

One little hour with those 

She loved so well ; 
Then came the slow, soft breath, 
The muffled step of death, 

And all was still. 

Our Mary did not die- 
She went away; 

And now beyond death's chill 

We see our Mary still 
In endless day. 



— 169 — 



The Ides of Spring. 



We are watching for the coming — 

Coming of the ides of spring: 

Waiting for her muffled footfall — 

For the beauty she will bring, 

When the buried seed will swell 
Touched by the sunbeam's magic spell — 
When from winter's long repose 
Will bloom the tulip and the rose, 

Scattering on the morning air 

Sweetest fragrance everywhere. 

We are wailing for her coming 

To unwrap the wild wood flowers; 

We are listening for the music 

Of the song birds in their bowers — 
Watching for the clover bloom — 
Listening for the wild bees hum — 
Looking for the running rills 
Through the meadows— down the hills. 

How all Nature seems to sing 

When return the ides of Spring. 



— 170 — 



Spring is Coining ! 



Spring is coming! It is coming! 

I can see its gleams of light 
On the gray, cold sky above me, 

Like the morning after night. 

Spring is coming! Chilled and pulseless 
Earth awaits it mystic powers 

To adorn her hills with verdure. 

And to fleck her vales with flowers. 

Spring is coming! While I listen, 

In my fancy I can hear 
The soft tripping of Her footsteps. 

Gently falling on my ear. 

Spring is coming! On the hilltops 
I can see its cheerful glow 

Melting off their winter wrappings — 
Crystal wrappings of the snow. 

Spring is coming! Winds are playing 
Softly on their silver lutes. 

And the echo of their music 

On the air like laughter floats. 

Spring is coming! Buds are swelling 
On the tips of every bough; 

And the currents of their life blood 
Noiselessly begin to flow. 

Spring is coming! It is spreading 
Velvet carpets on the fields; 

And it wakens with its brightness. 
Beauty, sleeping in the vales. 



— 171 — 



Spring is coming! Flowers are blooming, 
And with smiling faces stand; 

Blushing with a matchless sweetness — 
Tinted by a matchless hand. 

Spring is coming! From the Southland 
Have returned our forest choirs, 

Pouring down their notes of gladness — 
Singing in their leafy bowers. 

But, oh spring, since thy last coming. 
Faded flowers, and withered leaves 

Have been strewn along our pathway — 
Strewn upon our new-made graves! 



172 



Christmas Greetings. 



Are there Christmas rejoicings in heaven, wife ? 

Do the glorified spirits above 
Clasp hands as thej'^ used to do on earth, 

And exchange the fond greetings of love ? 

Have you met the friends of the long ago, wife, 
Midst the scenes of your heavenly home — 

The loved ones you knew in the years now gone 
E'er the sad days of parting had come ? 

Does the Glorified Child of old Bethlehem, wife, 

To whom all our praises belong, 
Look lovingly down when He hears your voice 

As you join in your new Christmas song? 

As you catch the clear notes of the spirit choir, wife, 

Do you miss any voice in the song 
That you once loved to hear in the days long ago 

When it joined with the glad Christmas throng? 

Were you here in our dear little home, wife, 

As I wakened and wept all alone; 
And did your sweet spirit respond as I 

Sighed: " It is Christmas, but she is gone." 

But I send you a glad, merry Christmas, wife. 
Just as if you were here by my side; 

For the love that united our souls long ago 
Will forever and ever abide. 



- 173 — 



Spirit Tendrils. 



How the tendrils of the spirit 

Cling to those we love, 
How we feel that they are near us — 
How we think they bend to hear us — 

Hear us from above. 

How the lone, dark hours grow brighter 

When our loved and gone 
Seem to see the tears we're shedding — 
Seem to know the path we're treading — 

Treading all alone. 

When we stroll amidst the flowers, 

Planted by their care, 
How with new delight they fill us — 
How their fragrance gently thrills us — 

Fragrance ever)^ where. 

When alone we kneel in sadness 

At the hour of prayer. 
How we seem to hear their voices — 
How again the heart rejoices — 

Rejoices they are there. 



O, the tendrils of the Spirit, 

How they clasp the heart 
To the loved ones God has given- 
Till we meet again in heaven — 
Meet no more to part ! 



— 174 — 



The Old Family Cupboard. 



How dear to my heart was the old family cupboard 

That my keen recollection now brings to my mind ! 
As I think of its cookies, and doughnuts, and jellies 

And all the good things, I knew it contained; 
I can see it to-day as it stood in its muteness, 

With its clean papered shelves, and its dishes so bright, 
And the good things within it my mother secreted, 

The pies, and the dainties, she hid from my sight. 
Oh, the big family cupboard, the old familj' cupboard, 
The dear family cupboard that stood by the wall. 

How often I stole to the old family cupboard 

In search of the good things I knew must be there, 
Tucked away under dishes or covered with napkins. 

But I searched the old cupboard and looked everywhere. 
Such cookies and doughnuts no boy ever tasted 

As those that I stole from their hiding place there ! 
And now I live over my pranks and my antics, 

As my mother would spank me, then called me her dear. 
Oh, the big family cupboard, the old family cupboard. 
The dear family cupboard that stood by the wall. 

That old house in the backwoods fell down long ago. 

And the old family cupboard we all soon forgot; 
But the cookies and doughnuts that I stole from their hiding 

When weary and hungry, I dream of them yet. 
I have seen many cupboards that were varnished and bright, 

Filled with all there was good, and awaiting want's call. 
But no cupboard in mansions, though adorned with much art, 

Could compare with m}^ cupboard, that stood by our wall. 
Oh, the big family cupboard, the old family cupboard. 
That dear family cupboard that stood by our wall. 



— 175 — 



If I But Whisper Her Name. 



I hope, when life's daylight pales out, 

And the hour of my going has come; 
That the friends I have loved, who once walked by my side 

Will be with me to guide me safe home. 

I hope I will hear the one loving voice, 

That for long, lonely years, I've not heard; 

For if at the last I but whisper her name, 
I am sure she will catch the sweet word. 

O how can I find her far away home, 

When death settles down on my way; 
If she does not come, having crossed the dark flood, 

To guide me to life's Endless Day? 



- 176 — 



Beiieclictioii. 



O Thou Spirit by whose light 

We learn to know and love the right ; 

Without whose guidance in life's way 

In seeking truth we go astray ; 

To Thee our grateful hearts we raise, 

And for Thine aid we render praise. 

O Thou guide in paths of thought, 
To him who by these lines has sought 
To honor Thee, and comfort those 
Who in Thine ear pour out their woes- 
May all who read these words of love 
In triumph gain The Home Above. 



DPn K 1902 



mi 
mm 



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016 112 618 



11 




